


Vitruvian

by Chanolay, Foreverwholockedme



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Drug Use, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Frankenstein AU, Happy Ending, Insecure John, Insecure Sherlock, Lonely Sherlock, M/M, Minor Character Death, Period-Typical Homophobia, Sherlock Is Not Okay, Sherlock is a small bab, Smut, Virgin Sherlock, john has his share of problems too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-04-11 04:12:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 93,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4420871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chanolay/pseuds/Chanolay, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foreverwholockedme/pseuds/Foreverwholockedme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his brother's death, Sherlock Holmes struggles with loneliness and depression. One night he decides to create a companion, someone who will keep him company, who will love him deeply. </p><p>His name is John Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Tragic Loss

“Let us commend Mycroft Holmes, to the mercy of God…”

He stood in front of the casket, hands gripping the rim of his hat. It was raining, but he had not a care - after all, the weather was rather poetic for a funeral. There was not many people who stood with him while the priest droned on about Heaven and Hell and Life After Death. He had not been expecting a large crowd anyways because they lacked any other family members besides each other. And now he was all alone.

He could cry if he wanted to. No one would notice. They would mistake it for the rain drops that were already sliding down his face. No one else could see his sadness. No one else cared. The other attendees were huddled together away from him. They stared at the black wood with straight faces but Sherlock knew better. They did not feel any sorrow towards his brother’s passing. They were all acquaintances that Mycroft had made in his line of work and nothing more. These people were here for the sake of propriety, not reasons to do with sentiment. Sherlock wanted them to leave but then he realized that if they did, there would only be him left there, and the last thing he needed was to be alone.

Four of the men that attended started to lower the casket. Sherlock noticed that one of the men, the oldest out of the four, had reddened eyes indicative of crying. That made him feel better, know he was not the only one who mourned Mycroft’s loss.

“We therefore commit his body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in the sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life.”

There were sniffles amongst the women that hid their faces behind black veils. Sherlock wondered if those tears were true. He tucked his hat underneath his arm and made slow strides to the casket. He placed his hand on the top and gave a small smile, pulling the flower from his coat pocket - a white lily. He did not normally partake in religious practices but for Mycroft he would make the exception just this once. He placed it on the coffin before the men were able to lower it beyond his reach. His lips twisted into a bitter smile as he whispered, “Farewell, Mycroft.”

The funeral ended shortly after the coffin was buried, and all the guests made their way to the church where the wake was previously held. Sherlock took his seat on the second pew from the front. He stared at nothing while the other guests stood three rows behind him and chattered away as if they were at a banquet and not a funeral. Sherlock shivered from the rain that had him completely drenched. He made no move to stand in leave.

“How have you come to meet Sir Mycroft, Albert?” The woman who was crying at the funeral asked this.

“We were introduced to one another at Lord Henry’s grand ball some years ago. Intelligent man, he was. Spent the whole night in his company.”

“I assumed that Sir Mycroft preferred to be alone.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Albert replied, “I’m not quite sure what I did to prove a worthy companion that evening, however, I am quite glad.”

One of the other women giggled and they changed the subject. Sherlock’s pew creaked, a sign that someone had decided to join him. He looked to his left and saw the older man, the one who cried while lowering Mycroft’s casket. His hair was greying but Sherlock could still see faint strands of the pure ebony the man would have sported in his younger years. He smiled at Sherlock and then put his elbows on the edge of the pew in front of him, pressing his hands together. He was praying and Sherlock stared at him while he did.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock finally asked.

“We are in a church, boy, I should think that prayer is not uncommon here.”

Sherlock’s cheeks flushed. The man smirked and placed a hand on Sherlock’s wet back. 

“I jest. What’s your name, lad?”

Irish. Sherlock had not been able to hear it at first. It suited him.

“Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.”

The man’s eyes widened.

“You’re Mycroft’s sibling.”

“Yes sir, I am.”

The man removed his hand and cleared his throat, eyes turning away for a moment.

“My condolences for your loss.”

Sherlock’s smile was as wide and false as he needed it to be, "You have my thanks."

The man held his hand out, which Sherlock reluctantly took, and they shook hands briefly.

“The name is Thomas, Thomas Banville. I met your brother two years ago and I am fortunate to say that he was a friend to me. My heart weeps for his loss.”

“As do you your eyes.”

Thomas shrugged, “One sheds tears when met with grief, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock did not respond. He heard the guests talking again, and he could not help but overhear their idle chatter. It seemed that Albert initiated conversation this time.

“I say, what is Sir Thomas doing talking to that queer fellow over there?”

“Mind your tongue, Albert, for if I am not mistaken that is in fact Sir Mycroft’s younger brother.”

“Oh? How is that I have never heard of him then?”

“Keeps to himself most likely, I have heard that he is...rather peculiar.”

“Regale us then, Lady Martin.”

The woman referred to as Lady Martin took off her veil. Sherlock caught a brief look at her face. She had applied an excessive amount of white paint to her features and garish rouge to her cheeks to hide the fact that she was aging, and rather poorly at that.

“He’s something of a wallflower. Sir Mycroft used to bring him along to gatherings and balls and such, but all he did was sit and watch. He does say rather disconcerting things, I can only imagine that Sir Mycroft was simply embarrassed of him and so stopped bringing him all together. I’ve had the misfortune of meeting him on one occasion.”

“And?” The other woman asked. “How did it go?”

Lady Martin smirked. “I would prefer to not make his acquaintance again.”

The group shared a laugh.

“I am terribly sorry you had to undergo such misfortune, Lady Martin. My word he even looks odd - that mess of curls he wears on his head!”

“You would think that, coming from a lineage of geniuses, he would have had the sense to bring an umbrella! Look at him, he resembles that of a stray mutt.”

The group broke into snickers once more and Thomas saw the flicker of hurt in Sherlock’s eyes.

“Do not take their words to heart, my boy, they are only heartless nobles, spawned from England’s upper class.”

Sherlock nodded but he could not bear to stay any longer. He had to return home.

“You’ll forgive me, Sir Banville, but I must take my leave. The rain has let up and I would like to be home before it starts again.”

He rose abruptly and held his hat underneath his arm once more. He didn’t look at Thomas as he shuffled past him. His pace quickened even more as he passed the hateful group of three. He tried to ignore their laughs and cold stares. His yearning for Mycroft had been emphasized even more by their words - Mycroft would have never allowed such chatter to continue. He hailed over a coachman as a carriage came into view. The driver stopped and looked down at him.

“Where to?”

“Holmes’ Manor. Please." Sherlock hopped in and immediately felt the movement of the cab, every step of the horses' hooves. He paid the coachman once they arrived and entered his home before the carriage left the front gate. He was immediately greeted by his maid, who gave him a warm smile. She took his jacket and his hat and was careful not to soak herself with his wet garments.

“Good evening, Master Holmes. Would you like for me to run you a hot bath?”

Sherlock nodded and she scurried off, leaving him alone. He found his way to the sitting room and took his seat right in front of the fire. Mycroft would have been in here already, reading a book, or helping himself to a cup of tea. He would have given Sherlock a look of disgust at the current sight of him, and tell him how improper it was to trail mud and rainwater into the house. Sherlock would not have listened, of course, but now he would sacrifice a great deal to hear Mycroft scold him once more. 

That night he did not take supper, his minimal appetite reduced to nothing by sorrow. Instead, he retired to bed after his bath though he knew slumber would not grace him. Mycroft would have given two knocks at the door as a sign that he was going to bed as well, but there was no noise in the manor that night, none besides the muffled sounds of Sherlock's sobs.


	2. A Decision

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to Olivia for being my beta writer and for taking time out of her busy schedule to help me with the story. Thank you so much! 
> 
> Comments and kudos are very welcome!

Sherlock rolled over to find the sky a somber grey. This was the fourth consecutive day . The rows of buildings and flats within his view were blurred by the raindrops that had found their homes on his window. He watched as the they landed on the glass, sliding down ever so gently, absorbing and dividing. He had slept in again, a habit developed over the past two weeks, even prior to Mycroft’s funeral. He wondered what his brother would say regarding the foul weather.

“This is no good at all, the horses cannot travel in these conditions! I shall have to postpone the meeting, how delightful.”

“Sherlock, I understand you’ve a need to conduct your experimentations. Do be mindful of the cold and bring your coat this time. You know how easy it is to fall ill.”

“How bothersome the rain is! I can scarcely finish this chapter. Come Sherlock, let us retire for the evening.”

Mycroft never did care for rain - an unlucky lot for a man residing in England.  Had he not been burdened with running the British government, Sherlock suspected he would permanently inhabit warmer climates.  Sherlock knew that Mycroft chose his career because it was one of their mother’s dying wishes.

They were born into nobility. The Holmes name was respected by the other members of England’s high society. Sherlock remembered how frustrated he became when their mother would stop and chat with a duke’s wife, or a lord’s fiance. So loved was she, that her funeral was attended by half of London’s upper-class. Their father was a kind man, if not distant at times. His parents loved each other, from what could be gathered through Mycroft’s accounts of their relationship. Few marriages between nobles were ever borne out of love.

Sherlock’s mother died first. She caught pneumonia, weakness growing until she became bed-ridden. The weather was harsh during her last days, whatever chance she had for recovery ruined thanks to the winter’s cold air. Sherlock didn’t remember crying when she died. He simply stared and admired how peaceful she looked. Morbid tendencies developing before he’d even realized.

He doesn’t remember much of his father. A man present for the childhood of his firstborn and less so for the next. Mycroft told him that once Sherlock was born, more matters of business arose that kept their father away, though his lies were easily seen through. Sherlock had no idea about his father’s whereabouts. Mycroft said that he died. A fire some place with no survivors. Sherlock was disappointed and saddened to hear the news. He never had the chance to get to know the man - just faint memories of someone with black hair and piercing blue eyes; Someone with a soft touch, a kind smile, and who said his name with such gentle and loving an utterance. His mother never hinted at any grievances about her husband’s absence. When he came around, they would kiss and there would be laughter, embraces, and smiles. Sherlock didn’t remember much about his father, but he knew that his father was not a bad man. He was a man loved by his family and who loved them in return.

Mycroft.

He would want him to eat something, a full meal. Sherlock was going to wither away if he continued to lay in bed and watch the rain fall. One drop...two...three....

He had to eat. At least toast and tea. He owed it to his brother to attempt sustaining himself

“Mrs. Hudson shall be delighted that I’ve arisen from my grave.”

He slid on his slippers, tied his robe tightly about his thin waist, and descended the stairs. Upon his arrival, one of the maids nearly dropped the newly-folded laundry at the sight of him, her mouth hung open as she stayed rooted to the spot. Sherlock met her gaze, his sullen countenance from watching his brother’s coffin lower into the ground unmoved by her shock. He shoved his hands into his pockets and walked towards the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson came out of the room, wiping her hands on her apron. She had been cooking a meal for him already. Sherlock felt a twinge of his heart, she was going to force him to eat with a mother’s stubbornness no doubt. She returned from her sister’s home the previous day, the maids informing her of their master’s situation. There was a reason Mycroft kept her around after so many years.

She jumped when she laid eyes on him.

“My goodness! Sherlock, you scared me half to death!”

Sherlock ignored her exaggerations.

“I’m sure that you know my reason for being down here, Mrs. Hudson.”

“If I’ve a guess, your appetite has returned?”

Sherlock gave a curt nod. She smiled and led him to the dining room. The table seated multiple people but it was only Sherlock who would dine there now. He struggled to not look at Mycroft’s empty chair. He took his seat and watched as Mrs. Hudson set his plate in front of him.

“Kidneys, beans on toast, sausage, and egg.” He raised a brow at the full meal, toast and tea a pale comparison to it.

“I expect the plate to be spotless, Sherlock. The others have told me that you’ve not eaten since your brother’s funeral.”

Sherlock pushed the yolk of the egg about with his fork. A few bites would suffice, and then he’d return to his room for the remainder of the day.

“Death should not bring about feelings of hunger, Mrs. Hudson.”

“How you talk!”

“I’ve not done much of that, have I?”

He took a bite of the toast. It tasted foreign, as if he had forgotten the sensation of it against his tongue. It didn’t lift his spirits. In fact, it nearly hurt to swallow it. He had to take a long sip of tea in order to wash away the crisp bread that clung uncomfortably to the back of his throat. It was after this first bite that Sherlock realized eating would be just as painful as waking up in the morning. Mrs. Hudson hummed to herself as she flung open the curtain. There it was, the familiar dullness in his chest, in his mind. The grey that symbolized sadness, the rain that resembled the tears that he’d cried. For the first time, he didn’t mind England’s climate as much. A companion in his misery.

“It has been raining for quite some time.” Sherlock muttered as he ate a piece of egg. He wanted to vomit.

“I wonder when it will end,” She answered, not turning to face him. Sherlock swallowed.

“The rain began on the day of Mycroft’s funeral, it has not ceased yet. It is as if the sky mourns his passing. What say you, Mrs. Hudson? Do you think, perhaps, that the world is saddened by my brother’s departure?”

Mrs. Hudson halted her cleaning and turned to face her young master. She got a good look at him, and saw how his eyes seemed colorless. There was no emotion, they reminded her of a lake frozen over to its depths. Her eyes teared as she realized that the face Sherlock wore was the face of a man who wished for death. She clasped her hands together.

“Are you alright, Sherlock? You’ve barely touched your breakfast.”

He looked down at it. The tear stains on his cheeks obvious against ashen pale skin of depression and malnourishment.

“My appetite has left me,” He gently pushed the plate away and rose from his seat. “My apologies for wasting such a lovely meal. I am sure you went through great pains to make it. I shall retire to my bedroom now.”

“Sherlock, this is the first time this week you’ve shown your face,” She tried to reason. **  
**

He flashed a melancholic smile.

“Yes, and I regret ever doing so.”

Sherlock turned and left. As he neared his room his body grew heavier. He felt relieved when he opened the door, locking it behind him. He never recalled his bed being as soft and comforting before. He lifted his blanket up and slid underneath, wanting to feel as smothered as possible. He supposed that he wanted to feel what Mycroft felt, or perhaps his mother. The thought of being trapped in bed, the sensation of losing oxygen, suffocating. Sherlock stopped when he heard the crack of thunder. He closed his eyes and nestled into the bed as if he could sink deeper. He wanted to find a slumber that had eluded him for days. Sleep only came to him a few hours, even minutes, at a time, never the amount he yearned for. He decided to roll over and stare at the bookshelf that was gifted to him by Mycroft. The first row contained various fairy tales. The second row was filled with encyclopedias of plants, biology, astronomy, and chemistry. Mycroft had acquired them once he realized Sherlock was fascinated by the sciences. He never told Sherlock to stop his experiments no matter how much he disapproved of them. He was the only one that accepted Sherlock without question. Now he was stuck with people like Alfred and Lady Martin.

“Dear brother, how would you have dealt with the imbeciles I encountered? Would you have defended me as is your familial duty?”

Sherlock snorted at his own question.

“Of course. Why would you not? You are my brother, you will not abide my harassment. You were the only person bestowed to me in life that truly cared.”

Sherlock sat up in his bed and shifted his position so that his feet touched the icy floor. The chill from the wood invigorated him. He sniffled as he stared at the photograph of Mycroft and himself. Sherlock wiped away the tear that fell from his eye.

“Who will provide me with the warmth and protection that you had, Mycroft? Dour at times, yes, but you were hardly one to blame. To be tasked with the burden of watching over your younger, particularly unruly, brother. My heart sinks at the very thought of your loss. You should not be rotting underground. You should be here. Scolding me for improper use of the fireplace, or for not being tidy. I was not fond of the time you forcefully groomed my hair after days of my neglect but there is little I would not endure to have you do it again.

He didn’t bother to wipe the tears away, there were too many at this point. He released a soft whimper.

“You always told me that there would be no meaning to life if there was no death. Remember those stories you used to read to me at night? Tales full of death and rebirth. How unfair, how positively unfair. You died with no hope of rebirth, does that not anger you as much as it does me?”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked over the third shelf as he latched onto a ridiculous idea, honing in on the assorted books written to satiate its readers intrigued by science, as Sherlock was. He had the means, both the knowledge and the monetary. Would he dare to do it? Would he attempt to recreate his brother? He shook his head and sighed.

“Alas, I will not violate you in such a way, brother dear. You have struggled and you now have your chance to rest, be at peace. To dig your corpse up for my selfish reasons would be a grave sin. I am sorry, Mycroft.”

He sniffled and wiped the tears hanging from the tip of his nose. With a great effort, he rose from his bed and staggered over to the bookshelf. He retrieved one and opened it. The first image was Leonardo Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man.

“The Vitruvian Man is the model of the ideal human. His proportions are exquisite, his body is truly what mankind desires to have,” He recited its description, long fingers tracing the circles drawn around the body. His head tilted slightly as he stared at the drawing. His mouth twisting into a bitter smirk.

“Do you think, Mycroft, that he also has the heart of the ideal human? The soul of the ideal human? Is he truly the perfect man? Can one even create such a thing?”

With a rush of madness, he tore the page out of the book slowly, careful not to rip the image. His eyes bore into every detail that was illustrated on the paper. He suddenly let out a sob and hugged the drawing to his chest. He was careful not to ruin the centuries-old sketch. He smiled, but then he frowned as he looked over at the photograph on his dresser.

“Oh Mycroft, this pain, I cannot tolerate it any longer! I am so utterly and bitterly alone and I long to be freed from the state! I will do it, I shall take on the task.”

He took a breath.

“I will create my Vitruvian Man.”


	3. Gathering the Tools

Sherlock spent the night at his writing table, scribbling away on the paper that he procured from Mrs. Hudson, who used it to write to her sister. An hour of drawing, writing, and sketching passed before he scowled at his work and swept it all to the floor. He yanked at his curls out of frustration. This had to be accomplished. It had to.

The very thought of a companion pushed him to think harder. He stared up at the sky but the fog was heavy that evening, rendering the stars’ shine dull. However seeing them halted his thoughts. He set his fountain pen down and rose from his chair to go to  the window sill, pressing his face to the glass so that he might get a better view.

“Such brave stars. No matter how the fog diminishes their light they do not extinguish.”

The tips of his mouth curled to form a small smile. He found it silly to be moved by such meaningless things - Mycroft would scoff at the childish idiocy. The very nature of stars was to shine. Should the lamps in the street ever die, the bright dots of the heavens would provide what was their natural service to expanses farther than Sherlock could ever comprehend.

“I wonder if you are among the stars, brother dear.”

He looked back over at this work; Half done, far from complete. He was tired and longed for the comfort of his pillow and blanket, but sleep could wait. He wanted results and the sweet relief of solution.

Sherlock was thankful for the short break he took stargazing. He rubbed his eyes, made his way back to his desk, and work began anew. He scarcely noticed the stars and the moon make way for the sun. He was nearly done by dawn, his sketch was complete, and his notes only needed a few modifications. He laughed to himself, ignoring the half crazed note to it. He was really going to do it - create his vitruvian man. He entertained himself with the idea that Leonardo was no doubt rolling in his grave, spewing curses and insults in Italian while Sherlock toiled away.

“A palm is four fingers, a foot is four palms....” He muttered to himself. It was nearly eight o’clock and Sherlock was hunched over his desk, hair wild from unkemptness, eyes wide from manic determination. Just another addition to the second-to-last note, one more look at the encyclopedia, a break to wipe the fatigue from his eyes. He could not be burdened with the needs of his body.Hunger, his bladder, and weariness all could not prevail upon him to satisfy them.. He set the pen down and read the newest sheet of notes. They would do. If he edited them any further he would surely go mad.

“The length of the outspread arms is equal to the height of a man...from below the chin to the top of the head is one-eighth of the height of a man...yes, yes this should suffice...it will suffice!”

He grinned, proud of his work. However, his pride was short-lived.

“How would I carry out such a plan?”

His smile vanished once he realized that drawings and notes were only half the work needing completion.

“What a fool I am! The body! Body parts are needed to create a human. How can I even acquire such items?”

He looked over at the window, searching but not seeing.  With a gasp of breath he realized what needed to be done in order for his dream to become a reality. He had to go to a graveyard.

“It cannot be helped then. Fear not, dear brother, I shall not interfere with your rest as I have assured you before. My man needs limbs, limbs that the dead have no use for. I will journey to the cemetery at nightfall for fear of wandering eyes should I venture there now. There, I will obtain the necessary items to construct his body.”

Sherlock had just finished his sentence when he heard Mrs. Hudson knocking at the door. She had come to appeal to his appetite once more. He hid his papers inside of his desk drawer and went to open the door. There she stood with a covered tray resting on her hands and a warm smile adorned her face.

“I’ve brought you breakfast.”

“So I see.” Sherlock replied indignantly.

“You are to eat this, Sherlock.”

“I’ve no appetite for it.”

“Rubbish! You’ve not eaten in nearly a day, I shall not have the last brother dead as well, not if it can be helped!”

“Mrs. Hudson, it takes a body a month to die of starvation. I shall be fine for quite some time yet.”

The smile vanished and Sherlock knew he had angered her. She pushed past him into the room and set the tray down on his desk with a bit of force, the cutlery jangling against the silver. She never did yell at Sherlock but she was firm with him. If she wanted him to bathe, he bathed, if she wanted him to eat, he ate. Mrs. Hudson huffed and walked out of the room.

“I’ll come for the dish twenty minutes from now, the plate shall be spotless upon my return, do you understand?”

Sherlock hadn’t the energy to argue with her. He hadn’t slept, nor had he the will to come up with a quick enough response. He only closed the door and returned to the desk. He placed his notes next to the tray and read them over. He had an ominous feeling that something was amiss- and there was always something. It irritated Sherlock to no end. What did he forget? What was it that kept ease out of reach? Was it the idea of stealing body parts from corpses? Or was it the very idea of creating a man? He thought that maybe he should have created a woman, make her his wife, attempt to live amongst the other nobles. But what was normalcy anyway? Yet another social construct created by the privileged who thought that everyone who didn’t abide by their impossible criteria was to be treated with scorn and malice. Sherlock rolled his eyes. He was born into said privilege, yet he was subject to its bullying. He knew the others laughed at him behind his back, Lady Martin and her group were the first to ever do it within earshot. Sherlock realized that they only treated him with a modicum of respect because he was related to Mycroft, and no one dared upset him. That never stopped them from mocking Sherlock once they left the manor.

Sherlock sniffed and shook his head. He could not afford to think of such things. They were gone and he was safe in his room, alone, away from the cold gazes and murmuring. His companion would not treat him like that, he would be kind and protective. He would love Sherlock. The thought of which made him smile softly.

“I should not be so invested in such idle fantasies.”

He set the papers down and shifted his attention to the lid that covered his breakfast. He lifted it up to see that there were only beans and toast. No tea. Sherlock took his seat and ate his food. It tasted better than the previous time he tried to eat it, but it was not much of an improvement. He was pleased when he took his last bite, Mrs. Hudson’s wrath safely evaded. He pushed the tray aside and made a few more edits on his notes. He wanted to make sure that everything was correct because he was Sherlock Holmes, and he rarely made mistakes.

True to her word, she returned twenty minutes later and inspected the dish as if her life depended on it. Once she saw that he really did eat the food, she gave him a smile.

“Very good, Sherlock. Spotless.”

Sherlock ignored her praise. He was mulling over his plan in his head. He had the notes, he was going to get the materials that night. But where would he piece it together? Suddenly it came to him. Mycroft rented a private flat on Baker Street for whenever he felt need to get away from Sherlock’s antics or his job. Sherlock was the only other person who had a key. It was fit with an attic big enough for Sherlock to work in. He would have to leave the manor since there would be no room to hide the limbs if he should return. The maids cleaned every crevice of the house; if they didn’t find the parts first, they would surely smell them. How long would he be away? Days, weeks, months, years? It didn’t matter, time was of little consequence. What choice was there? Snapping out of his thoughts, he slammed his hands on the desk and turned toward Mrs. Hudson.

“Do forgive this sudden announcement, but I shall be taking my leave of the manor for some time.”

She looked confused, then dejected.

“Ah. Might I ask how this came about?”

Sherlock swallowed hard. He refused to look her in the eye after seeing her hurt expression.

“I think you understand my reason for it. Too many memories here, Mrs. Hudson. Everywhere my gaze falls reminds me of Mycroft in some variant. I cannot bear it anymore. This feeling that I harbor, it gnaws at me, and I long to dispel it. I miss my brother dearly, and I think that it is best for me to...depart.”

Silence filled the room.

“I will return, when I cannot say, but do know that my leave will not be permanent.”

“What would you have me do then, Sherlock? To live in a house where I’ve no master?”

“Worry not, I will place you as caretaker of the house. Until I return, this house will be under your care and management. Does that suffice?”

She nodded and picked the tray up.

“It’ll do, Sherlock, but nothing shall make tolerable living in an empty home.”

He didn’t respond. The house would not be empty, the maids would still remain, but he knew what she meant. The best decision was not always the easiest, he wanted to tell her but he could not will himself to say another word. Consolation was never his area.

“Where will you go, Sherlock?”

He had half a mind not to tell her but he could not bring himself to do it. He was not a cruel man.

“Baker Street.”

She knew the place and seemed satisfied with the knowledge. Mrs. Hudson walked out of the room, closing the door behind her. Sherlock decided to have a quick nap, he would need the energy for tonight. Before he could drift off into slumber, he eyed his desk again, and then his picture of Mycroft. He slept easier that morning.

That night, he was racing around the room, packing his clothes and everything else that he would need. He was already dressed in a simple white shirt and black trousers with shoes to match. The outfit itself was not one of his best however it was one he would not miss should it be ruined by mud, rain, or even tears. He emerged from his room and shut the door quietly. Mrs. Hudson was in her quarters, preparing herself for sleep no doubt. There was only one other maid that was up at the hour. Jeanette, he thinks her name was. He would have to give her the order to fetch a coachman so that when he returned he would be able to leave for Baker Street. He found her rearranging a vase of flowers. Why she never retired with the others was beyond him.

“Jeanette.”

She jumped so high her feet left the floor. She spun to face him with a bewildered look in her eyes.

“Master Holmes! What on earth has you up at this hour?”

“I could ask the same of you.”

She took a few deep breaths and answered him in a calmer tone.

“I...I could not...I am having trouble sleeping.”

“Do listen, I need you to fetch a coach for me. I’m to be running an errand for sometime and I expect the man to be outside upon my arrival, do you think you can do this for me?”

A million questions formed in her mind at the odd request but she nodded her head and scurried off to send the message. Sherlock waited until she was gone before he left. There was no rain this time, better for him to get things done. He placed a cap on his head and moved as quickly as he could. Thankfully there was no one else on the streets since having the elite as neighbors meant that everyone was to be in their homes and in bed before midnight. Yet another social rule he didn’t care for.

He approached the gate to the graveyard and saw the undertaker leaving for the night. Good, he wouldn’t have to waste any time hiding from him. Sherlock noticed that the undertaker was clearly drunk by the way he stumbled around the mounds of dirt and forgot to lock his shed on the way out. As soon as it was clear, Sherlock sprinted into the shed and grabbed the shovel. He ran around the headstones, searching for people who recently died and weren’t completely decomposed yet. During his search he found Mycroft’s headstone. He felt his grip around the shovel slacken as he read his brother’s tomb stone.

_**Mycroft Holmes** _

_**1853-1895** _

_**Beloved Son and Brother** _

_**May he rest in peace** _

Sherlock’s legs started wobbling as he read the inscription. He would have given Mycroft a better epitaph but he remembered his brother scoffing at the idea years before he died. Sherlock knelt down and gave the smooth tombstone a few strokes.

“I shall see you again, in another life perhaps.”

He blinked away the tears that were begging to be shed and resumed his mission. He found a suitable match, the dirt of the grave still fresh. The man’s name was Thomas, he died of syphilis, at only thirty years of age. Sherlock spared a few moments of silence before he began digging. While he was busy at work, a couple began walking down the street when they spotted Sherlock shoveling away the dirt. The woman stopped the man who was busy chugging his whiskey.

“What’re you doing, Sally? Why’ve we stopped now?”

“Oi! Shut your mouth and look.”

She pointed at Sherlock, who didn’t notice their presence. The man squinted his beady eyes, but could hardly make out what Sherlock was up to.

“It’s a bloke, what of it?”

“I’ve got eyes, Anderson, I can see as much.”

Anderson clearly wasn’t interested in what Sherlock was doing, he tried to pull Sally along so that they could continue home.

“Let’s go.”

“I swear he’s some sort of freak. Why’s he digging away at the grave like that?”

“I’ve not a clue, nor do I care to find out. Off we go!”

Her feet finally budged but she couldn’t take her eyes off of him. Eventually, she decided to leave well enough alone and walked away. Sherlock, however, just finished digging and opened the coffin. He gagged at the scent that wafted up into his nose. He started to hack away at the man’s legs with the shovel’s blade. Minutes later, he finally got the limbs to come off. He placed them inside of the sack he brought with him. He moved on to find his next victim, a marquis named Aloysius. There he found the proper arms. A torso came from Henry Ackerly - not quite defined but Sherlock found it suitable -  who died from a gun wound to the shoulder and bled out instantly. He was thirty-seven years of age, as the inscription read. The head was found last. The top  of the headstone was worn away and jagged, displeasing to the eye unlike all the other smooth stones. The family who bought it was probably not as wealthy as the rest of the others who had their loved ones buried here.

The name he saw read “Watson”. The epitaph read that he succumbed to the effects of alcoholism. This reinforced the idea that the family was not rich. Sherlock also assumed that the man probably died from failure of the liver or an unfortunate accident while drunk. Watson’s face looked soft, clean-shaven. He was dead for a few months, but he looked as if his funeral was yesterday. Sherlock stared at the face for a long while before he started to hack away. Watson was not an ugly man, he was in fact quite attractive. Sherlock hesitated at first, he didn’t want to ruin such a gentle face. He found his nerve again and off the head went. Sherlock could not stop his silent apologies as he slid the head into the sack. He fixed the grave as best as he could before he returned the shovel to its rightful spot in the shed. He heaved the admittedly heavy sack over his shoulder and raced off to his manor.

He sighed out of relief once he saw the coach staged outside of the home. He entered and threw the sack inside, causing a loud thud. Before he could climb in, Jeanette ran up to him, looking dreadfully tired.

“Master Holmes!”

“Hear my words, Jeanette, tell Mrs. Hudson that I am not be disturbed during my time at Baker Street unless there is a dire need. Do you understand?”

She nodded. “Yes, sir!”

Sherlock climbed into the coach and faced her again.

“I’ll send for my things, and do try and get some rest, you look as if you’ll collapse any second.”

She nodded again and watched as the coach rode off into the night.

 **  
**  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clear any confusion up, the story takes place during 1895 because "It's always 1895"


	4. Failure

_December 29th_

__

_It has been three months since I began the task of creating my own companion, three months since my brother perished. I left our manor shortly after collecting the necessary tools to undergo such a strenuous task. I arrived at Baker Street nearly an hour after I had set out for my scavenge. The streets were empty, and the coachman offered to take my belongings, to which I declined. I wonder how I appeared to the man, eyes wild, sweat and dirt on my face. The definition of a madman. I hurried inside of the blessedly empty flat and set my things down. The door to what is my room was open, as if beckoning me to sleep. Tempted, I admit I was, but sleep remained just a thought as I began to piece the limbs together. I set up a laboratory of sorts in the desolate second floor of the building. Exhaustion had me faint which required a prompt rest to bathe and remove the filth of what transpired hours ago. It is my habit to take baths leisurely but with the thought of the creation hardly begun I hastened to return to it with an urgency that would last the entire duration of construction._

__

_There it...there he lay as I write. My man. In theory, this was a wearisome process, in practice it was intensely laborious. The parts had to first be carefully embalmed to prevent rot and any imperfections examined to ensure he not be defective. That stage of the procedure has consumed me until today.  Currently the parts are assembled  but I have not yet gotten the chance to sew them all together. . As this is a journal strictly to record my thought process as I continue, the steps and all their intricacies have been inscribed in a separate record._

__

_I would have liked to be finished with this stage by now but I have fallen ill several times during my stay here. I was recently bed-ridden due to dehydration, exhaustion, and hunger. Luckily, I was not ill enough to seek medical care, though the thought of company was quite appealing to me at the time. Though I have developed an attachment to my man already, something I am loath to confess, he has not yet a spirit that satisfies my yearning for companionship._

__

_But I digress. I must return to my work, I have finished with the legs, and now I must begin with the arms, as well as the torso. I pray that I am finished by month’s end. With the cold weather approaching, I fear how it will hinder me as my poor constitution is prone to illness in the winter months._

**  
  
**

Sherlock closed the journal and put it inside the desk. He picked up his plate that once held a meager sandwich - evidence of his effort to prevent another bout of dreadful bedrest. The plate with the other soiled dishes, he left his floor of the flat and ascended up the stairs. He opened the door slowly, as if he might rouse the body lying in front of him. Sherlock managed to retrieve a cot for the body to lie on, something Mycroft kept for the rare occasions somebody other than Sherlock was to travel with him there. Sherlock’s full inventory of medical instruments was another gift from Mycroft. One of his connections, a man who was a doctor that retired ten years prior and was giving away his medical tools and Mycroft acquired them just for Sherlock.

Sherlock’s eyes flickered over to the body on the cot. The legs were attached to the torso already but because he had to stitch the body parts together, hideous black sutures were visible against the colourless skin. Sherlock wished he was better with a needle and thread as well so that the body might look more natural. He sighed and began to stitch the left arm to  the torso, stopping briefly to admire the scar that graced the shoulder. To anyone else, it would be unseemly, an aberration, grotesque. To Sherlock, the scar looked, in a few ways, like the sun. The bullet entered the center of the shoulder without precision, resulting in scar tissue that flared out like the rays of the sun. Sherlock found it beautiful, he also found himself melancholic that the man died from such a wound.

“There is beauty in death, I suppose.”

He finished with the arm and marveled at the sight in front of him. His eyes wandered from the scar to the legs. Sherlock did not realize until now that the man he took the legs from was no more than five feet and some inches. He wanted to be upset with himself for making such silly mistake, but he could not bring himself to do it. His hand splayed across the torso of his companion. The abdomen was not as trim and lean as Sherlock’s own was, which was rightly so as Sherlock maintained his shape in the poorest of manners. Sherlock’s hand squeezed the pudge of flesh that was the gut. His gaze trailed down to the lower part of the man’s body. Sherlock always tried to ignore its presence, even whilst he pieced the body together, he did not stare for long. His companion was certainly well-endowed,  an observation that stirred up the slightest hint of envy. Sherlock fought the urge to touch the man’s penis to satisfy the ever-present curiosity he felt as he worked. Half of it was covered by pubic hair and Sherlock had half a mind to cut it off so that he may get the whole picture. He shook his head. Vulgar thoughts, such inappropriate thoughts he had.

Sherlock resolved to look away and focus on the task at hand. He was ashamed of himself to think of touching another man in such a ghastly way. If he had, he imagined the police swarming into the flat and whisking him away for gross indecency. Sherlock covered the lower body with a blanket. His urge remain as he worked but he focused his attention on the man’s face. The sight of which brought a soft smile to Sherlock’s lips.

“You have such beautiful features.”

He moved to the other side of the body and started to attach the right arm. Sherlock was slower this time, he thought that if he was gentle enough, the sutures would not be so messy. Every so often, Sherlock would halt his work and stare at the face that would soon belong to his only friend. He removed one hand from underneath the half-finished arm and reached up to stroke the creature’s face. He figured talking to a man who was not awake was better than keeping his thoughts to himself so he confesses quietly to feeling lonely at Baker Street. With one last stroke, he resumed stitching, done with the arm down moments later.

“All that remains is your head and your innards, I shall try to finish as soon as I am able.”

Sherlock spent the rest of the day working on the body. He finished attaching the head and frowned as he realized that he would have to dress his friend with high collars and scarves so that no one would remark upon his scars. All he had left was to finish was the innards of the body and his work would be complete at last. He did not retire for sleep until four in the morning, Sherlock barely made it to the bed, instantly falling asleep to dream of pleasant things , such as meeting his new friend in the morning.

He had done it. He had created his Vitruvian Man.

**  
  
**

_January 29th._

__

_Yet another month has passed since I completed my construction and still he lies dormant upon the slab that I assembled him on. Each day I return only to see he sleeps still. What have I done to deserve such cruelty? Have I not suffered enough with the death of my brother? Shall I suffer from loneliness too? He does not stir, he does not draw breath. What have I done wrong? I took every precaution whilst creating him, tirelessly reviewed my work so that nothing would go astray. What sadness is this that fills my heart? Such woe that hinders me from happiness. I have spent nights watching over him, hoping that he wakes to the sound of my voice. Was this plan, along with all the time that I’ve sacrificed for it, nothing more than the delusion of a dreadfully lonely man? I fear depression has found me now. I weep on some days, on others I stare at nothing. I laugh as I realize that I have gone mad, I cry because I am alone. I have no faith, no hope. I have nothing and no one._

__

_Some nights I wonder about the man that resides upstairs who will never wake. I imagine us together, grinning, laughing, and happy. It is only when I feel the sun’s rays on my face that I realize how dark my life has become. The sun has never brought me comfort._

__

_I wonder if I was ever destined for euphoria. Was I created for naught but anguish?_

__

_How have I survived this long in a world that does not want me?_

__

_I only desired a companion._

__

_Am I not allowed that?_

__

_I grow weary of writing._

 

Sherlock shut his journal only to sweep it off the table in a fit of agony and helpless despair. After months of toiling away he was left alone with the bare and shameful truth of his weakness, his gross need for affection. Out of all the foolish things he had ever done, were Mycroft still alive, this moment would bring about the height of his brother’s derision.

Caring was not an advantage and Mycroft was always right.

He stood in the middle of his bedroom, the words of his brother, of those who had ridiculed him, and of his own self-disdain filled his mind. His breaths came laboured and his eyes were hot and unseeing. A downpour beat against the windows, a constant thrum of noise to which the patter of his heart raced to match. The candle in his room, by whose lone light Sherlock had been writing, flickered as it came to an end, extinguished by its own pool of wax. Sherlock was frantically spiralling down into an abyss he had arduously fought all his life and, for a moment, he wondered if that was where he belonged. His mind was tearing itself apart where he stood and Sherlock was losing the battle against himself with every second past.

A brief flash of light illuminated the room and broke through his anguish, eyes finally focusing on the dark skies of the night to identify the source of the light. He saw nothing. And then there was the loud crack of thunder whose harsh boom made Sherlock cringe. He trembled where he stood, bereft now that the madness was brought to a halt. He felt vulnerable, afraid, and, most of all, angry.

Sherlock turned to the door and left his room. He sped up the steps, propelled by disgust towards himself and the physical manifestation of all his weaknesses in the creature that lay upstairs. The room was dark but Sherlock knew precisely where the creature was. He clutched it by the arms and hauled it off of its resting place to hear the thud of lifeless limbs hitting the floor. His eyes fell upon the creature as he dragged it across the room but his gaze was obstructed by the hot tears he was not conscious of shedding. Anger for himself was directed to the man who had failed him, showed him not only his own defectiveness but the lengths to which he would go to cure it. Such features that had brought him peace before he saw not, only the betrayal of someone to which Sherlock would have loved and cared for in return for the same.

The body he had assembled with such delicacy now he treated as if it were meaningless. Sherlock was grunting with his own exertion as he tugged the body down the steps, falling against the walls more than once as his feet missed the stairs, all the while the sound of thunder filled the narrow stairwell, amplified. By the time he reached the entrance of 221, Sherlock was breathless and bruised. He threw the front door open to the harsh roar of the rain as it came down in slants to instantly wet his person. He pulled the body through the door and dragged it across the cobblestone street to an alley. The downpour meant no sane person was on out on the streets but being seen was the last thing on Sherlock’s mind. With a final push of strength he heaved the body around, letting go to see it hit the wall and slump down against the ground. He felt compelled to laugh when he observed that the creature was still intact but when he felt a sob rise to his throat he locked his jaw and adopted a countenance he would uphold for the rest of his life.

“I do not have friends. I was foolish to think I could contradict something I know to be true. No life ever came to you but I gift to you all the feelings that I ridiculously sought to receive and the stupidity that consumed me. Goodbye.”

Sherlock left, drenched and cold, empty. He entered 221 and went directly to his bedroom, stripping himself of his clothes and climbing under the sheets. The exhaustion that filled him was of a different breed entirely - a beckoning to a black void where absolutely nothing awaited him. Sherlock accepted the invitation wholeheartedly. He could think of nothing worse than waking in the morning to the dread of his existence. He would sleep for hours, days, years, and waste away until there was nothing left of him to offer a world he never belonged in. Sherlock shut his eyes and he was asleep.

Not even the loudest crack of thunder could rouse him, the intensity of which could only mean it struck nearby.

**  
  
  
  
  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huuugee thank you to my co-author and beta writer for helping me with the chapter and for the amazing ending as well! 
> 
> Comment and kudos and thank you for reading!


	5. His Name Is John

_“Sherlock, what have you done?”_

__

_Mycroft was standing over him with his arms crossed and a frown carved onto his face. Sherlock hated the shadow that was cast on him as Mycroft towered above. He was waiting for a response from his younger brother. Sherlock had made the mistake of climbing the bookshelf to admire a bee. Needless to say, Sherlock, and the shelf, went toppling over. Sherlock held his arm and watched the blood trickled down his elbow. It was merely a scratch but when Mycroft saw the wound, his eyes nearly came out their sockets. Sherlock glanced over at the shelf, it was broken beyond repair - they would have to get a new one. The maids were already cleaning the mess that he made due to his stupidity._

__

_“Have you lost your ability to speak?”_

__

_Sherlock shook his head._

__

_“No, Mycroft.”_

_Mycroft’s eyebrow rose, prompting Sherlock to gather his words before his punishment worsened._

__

_“There was a bee, brother. It flew into the manor and I only wanted to observe it.”_

__

_“And your feeling of curiosity made you climb such an object.”_

__

_“It was magnificent, Mycroft! Thankfully it was able to get away before I fell.”_

__

_Mycroft saw the light in Sherlock’s eye as he thought about the bee. His face softened as he witnessed the child’s innocence. Sherlock was only six, Mycroft tended to forget that. There were times when Mycroft only saw the genius in Sherlock and neglected the child. It was moments like this where he was able to forgive his brother for the messes he made. The boy was allowed a few mistakes, at least for now. Sherlock’s face portrayed nothing but worry at Mycroft’s silence._

__

_“I apologize for the mess, Mycroft. I suppose I’m to go to my room now.”_

__

_Mycroft sighed and knelt down._

__

_“I shall have to let this slide, brother dear.”_

__

_Sherlock’s mouth nearly dropped._

__

_“You will?”_

__

_Mycroft nodded and ruffled Sherlock’s curls. The boy was due for a trim._

__

_“No one was harmed, and you seem remorseful.”_

__

_Sherlock smirked. He was grateful for the lack of punishment. This was not the first time he broke something in the manor._

__

_“Come now brother mine, we’ll see to your wound and prepare for supper.”_

__

_Sherlock smiled at him and walked away from the scene of the incident._

__**  
**  


Sherlock’s arm hurt. He must have been imagining the pain from the dream. His arm had been cut, and his mind merely simulated the stinging. The pain was persistent, like something was hitting it now. Sherlock groaned, he didn’t want to wake up. He wanted to hear Mycroft’s voice one more time, he wanted to see his brother’s face before he was thrust back into reality. The pain increased, rendering Sherlock’s mind unable to recreate moments from his past. The pain in his arm would not cease and it saddened him as he realized that even in his sleep, he would not be granted the relief he sought.

Sherlock had nearly forgotten about the lightning outside so when the next bolt shot out of the sky, he jumped. The lightning was so close to him that, for a moment, he wondered if he might have been struck by it. He almost wished for the next bolt to come crashing through the window and leave him dead. It would be accidental, he thought. He would have no control over it, a natural phenomenon. He wondered if it hurt; surely it would not be painless, to have that amount of electricity come into your body, stimulating every sense, every nerve. Sherlock imagined it clearly, he would roll over and attempt to sleep again, but then his window would break, littering the floor with the crystal shards. He wouldn’t even see it coming. He would seize in agony before he would die. He hated himself for even thinking of such twisted hypotheticals.

He felt the tears welling in his eyes again, to cry twice in one night, how pathetic he was. He was not prone to such sentiment. Mycroft abhorred it. He could remember every instance where Mycroft scolded him for crying over such menial events, like the time the stray cat that wandered into their yard was trampled by the horses of a hansom cab. Sherlock cried and cried, and Mycroft scowled and told him that he was a fool for loving a cat that only wanted him for food. When Sherlock was a child he loved everything and everyone, and Mycroft always told him that he was wrong for it. All Sherlock knew was Mycroft, until Mycroft decided to let Sherlock meet other children his age.

They were cruel to him. They taunted, jeered, attacked him when they saw fit. Mycroft warned him but Sherlock never listened until the moment after the other children left him with bruises, a split lip, as well as a broken heart. Mycroft comforted him that night, something that Mycroft rarely did.

Sherlock was crying now, and with each tear that fell, he despised himself even more. He resolved to light a candle, he would rather not cry alone in the dark. With a sniffle, he lit the candle, only to find a man staring directly at him. Sherlock let out a shout and fell off his bed. He heard the man’s footsteps approaching. Oh what a way to die! He would be murdered by a common thug in his bedroom. What would the thief say to his cohorts, “I killed a man while he sobbed in his bed!”

“Leave me be!” He was in no shape to fight, he was exhausted and he knew that he looked far from threatening.

Sherlock crawled under the bed and stood up on the side. He picked up a glass that was resting on the nightstand next to his bed and threw it at the stranger.

“Leave my house at once!”

Sherlock scoured his room to find another object to throw until he got a good look at the person he was attacking. The man was short, Sherlock noticed even in the poor light. He also saw that the culprit had no clothes on, as well as scars that closely resembled the ones that he’d sewn on his…

“It cannot be…” Sherlock muttered. The man spun around at the sound of Sherlock’s voice. Sherlock could not make out the details of his face, but he was sure that it wasn’t his creation. His creation had never moved, never taken a breath, he did not work and Sherlock dragged him out of the house because he could not bear to look his failure in the eyes. This was nothing more than a burglar, Sherlock continued to tell himself.

‘You are not well, this is a figment of your imagination and nothing else.’

As much as he wanted to believe himself, Sherlock knew better. His eyes never deceived him.

“Face me at once.” He said with a sternness that he had not expected to have.

The intruder staggered from Sherlock’s bedside, and made his way to Sherlock, who was ready to launch the vase at him, should he try anything. Sherlock nearly fainted when the trespasser’s face was revealed by the candlelight. It was him. Sherlock’s man, the person that was to be his dearest companion, standing in front of him shivering and soaking wet from the rain. Sherlock stared at him, scarcely believing that he was truly alive. He was walking, and freezing, and scared. Sherlock had done it, his vitruvian man had become a reality.

“It’s you.” He breathed out. Sherlock detected the way the man shrank when Sherlock spoke.

He looked like he wanted to speak, but Sherlock knew that he would not be able to. He had no grasp of language so Sherlock would not be surprised if he wasn’t understood. Sherlock set the vase down on the nightstand and inched his way over to the frightened male.

“Peace, I mean you no harm. I apologize if I frightened you.”

There was no response. Sherlock scrutinized the cut that had formed when he threw the glass. He felt a stream of guilt wash over him. He had not meant to cause his creation pain, no matter how much had been inflicted on him. Sherlock grabbed the man’s hand and lifted it up so that it rested on Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock found a laugh creeping its way out when he witnessed the other’s reaction.

“It is only my heartbeat, you have one as well.”

Sherlock placed his hand on the wet chest and felt the soft thumping of the heart. Sherlock closed his eyes. He could already feel the smile forming on his face. He wasn’t alone anymore, the heartbeats alone created a sense of security and comfort. Cold as his skin was, warmth radiated from him.

“Do you understand me?”

Yet another bout of silence. Sherlock would have to teach him English no doubt. Seeing as how Sherlock would not be able to fall asleep due to his rude awakening, he figured he might as well begin his lessons right then. He placed a hand on the wounded appendage.

“Come, I’ll tend to your wound and clean you up as well.”

The man only stared, but followed Sherlock as he was led out of the room. Sherlock ran a bath for him, and he watched as the water filled up the small tub. Sherlock could not help but smile as he observed the other’s actions and behaviors. The world was so new to him, he had not yet experienced the emotions and sensations, or beheld the wonders that it offered him. At one point, he put his hand into the water, he must have been startled by his reflection. Sherlock shook his head and removed the hand from the bath.

“Worry not, it was merely your reflection.”

His companion looked lost. Sherlock rested a hand on his shoulder and leaned forward. Both of their faces were reflected in the water.

“See? That’s me,” Sherlock pointed to himself, “And that’s you.” He pointed to him. He looked confused, and mimicked Sherlock’s pointing. Sherlock nodded and did it again. Sherlock stopped the tap and helped his creature inside. He seemed reluctant at first and reached for Sherlock’s hand, but with encouragement, and Sherlock’s soft voice, he sat down in the water and waded his hand through it, even raising some to his lips and drinking. Sherlock was gentle as he cleaned him. He scrubbed the soap along his back, and attempted to clean the stitches, as well as the rest of his body. He stopped when it came to the front of his creation’s body. He taught him how to scrub, and when Sherlock felt that he had the gist of it, he let him finish cleaning himself. When he was done and came out, Sherlock cleaned his cut as well.

Since there were no clothes for his creation, Sherlock gave him his silk red dressing gown. His hair was wet, but Sherlock could not get over how relieved he was to be able to touch him, to feel the dripping locks. To have him wholly.

He sat him at the table in the dining room. Sherlock placed books on the table, leaving the other to stare at him in amusement. When Sherlock was finished, he opened up each book, one was The Bible, the other was The Complete Works of Shakespeare, and  the others were children’s books and novels that bore suitable names for his colleague.

“Alright, I am aware that you are unable to speak my language, but you deserve a name, nonetheless.”

Sherlock flipped The Bible to a random page and pointed to the first name there. Adam.

“How do you feel about this? Ah-dam.”

There was no reaction or response. Sherlock decided that he would not like to be called such a name. He flipped to the Shakespeare book.

“Romeo? It is quite the romantic name. Ro-me-oh.”

Nothing. Sherlock flipped through the book again.

“Proteus? Pro-tee-us.”

His face did not change, Sherlock ran his hands through his curls. He could stand to bathe as well. Sherlock yawned, but continued the name search. He felt as if he was talking to a wall instead of a person.

“Mercutio.”

“Hamlet.”

“Macbeth.”

“Isaiah.”

“Noah.”

“Moses?!”

That was but only a few of the dozens of names that he suggested for his friend. Still the search was fruitless. Sherlock wanted to find a name for him, to spend every moment of the day finding excuses just to say it. He could hardly contain himself. He took a deep breath, and looked through The Bible for more.

“Matthew.”

No response either. He flipped through more pages.

“John.”

Sherlock huffed and then moved to close the book, but then he was stopped by his creation placing his hand on the page. Sherlock held his breath. Was this it? Had he finally chosen a name? Sherlock wished that it was so. He opened the book to where the man’s hand was and searched for the name again. Sherlock smiled, and then looked into those blue eyes.

“Is this it? Shall that be your name?”

The man quirked his lips up, clearly mimicking Sherlock’s smile, and telling Sherlock that he did like the name. Sherlock nodded and closed the book.

“Your name is John.”

John gave a careful nod. He learned quickly, Sherlock thought.

“Say it with me. John. Jaw-n.”

John’s mouth quivered as he opened it.

“J…” The beginnings of his name. Sherlock felt a surge of excitement rush through him.

“J-awn. You’ve nearly got it!”

“J...aw…”

“Yes that’s it! John!”

John stared at Sherlock’s lips as he said the word. He then took a deep breath and attempted to say it again.

“J...aw...n…”

“Precisely! All together now.”

“J...John…”

Sherlock laughed, he’d much prefer to laugh compared to all the days he spent crying. He nodded and said it again, just to be sure that John got it.

“John.”

John tried to laugh too, but all that came out was something of a wheeze. He leaned in and said, “John.”

  
Sherlock grinned. Words could not express how he felt at the moment. John had drawn breath, he was alive, he was speaking! He was far from perfect, but Sherlock already forgot his feelings of anger and betrayal and the void filled with happiness and affection. For he had him now. He had his John.


	6. A Night By the Fire

In the time that came after Sherlock named John, it seemed that he could not stop saying the other’s name. John was riddled with curiosity, he wandered about the flat examining and touching everything that became the object of his interest. Sherlock did not mind at first, if he was to live here, it would only seem fit that he have the right  to get accustomed to his surroundings. Of course, John’s attention went toward some of the more dangerous things around the flat as well, such as the fireplace. Sherlock had dashed to his room to grab his blue silk dressing gown. He had not been clothed when John came to life, and forgot about his inappropriate state of dress whilst searching for a name with his companion. Upon his return, he found John crouched down in front of the fire, with a hand that hovered dangerously close to the flames, likely seeking the warmth.

“John!”

The loud utterance of the name startled John; he rose to meet Sherlock’s frightened and frustrated eyes. Sherlock ran over to him and moved him away from the fire.

“You mustn’t touch that!”

John swallowed, he looked at fire and then back at Sherlock. Sherlock shook his head and knelt down to be at level with the fire.

“Fire burns, John. Burning is not good.”

John stared at Sherlock. He knew that John hadn’t a clue what he was saying, but he had to get the point across. He couldn’t bear it if John got hurt due to his negligence. Sherlock sighed and held out his hand to John. John seemed hesitant at first, but he placed his hand in Sherlock’s. Sherlock wrapped his long fingers around it and guided towards the blaze. Sherlock watched as John’s eyes widened, he felt the heat no doubt. Immediately, John attempted to free himself of Sherlock’s grasp, he did not like the fire, he learned his lesson. Sherlock released him, and noted the way John held his own hand as if it were severed from his body. Sherlock took both John’s hands and said, “Fire burns.” In as soft a tone as he could muster.

John’s brows were furrowed; his mouth quivered as he tried to speak. Sherlock smiled softly- how new to the earth he was. The body of an adult he possessed, but he retained the intelligence of a newborn infant, only freed from his mother’s womb mere hours ago. Sherlock only realized after John had reanimated that he would have no knowledge of even the simplest things, such as talking. It was of little bother to him, he would teach John every language in the world if he so wished to learn, all that mattered to Sherlock was John. Sherlock feared that he was caught in a waking dream, that none of this was real, only an illusion created by his darkened mind. He wondered how long it would take before he would awake in his cold and lonely room with no John. He did not care, if this was a dream he would bask in every moment that he got to spend with John, no matter how painful it would be to wake from such a tender imagining.

“Burning, is not good, my dear John.”

John imitated Sherlock’s disapproving head shake. Sherlock could hear John’s soft attempt at reiterating the word “Not”. Sherlock was never a man of infinite patience, but for John, he would wait as long as was necessary.

“N...ot…”

Sherlock nodded.

“Very good, John. Not.”

John stopped, took a deep breath, and then said again, “Not.”

Sherlock felt quite the fool for smiling as much as he did in one night. Less than a day of life and John had already successfully said two words, one of which being his own name. How many more would he learn days, weeks, from then? Sherlock felt a twinge of excitement as he thought of the future. Their future. He rose from his place on the floor and motioned for John to follow him.

“Come, John. We still have an hour before the sun appears. We should take advantage and rest for the remainder of the night.”

John did not move. Of course, the bedroom held unpleasant memories for him. It was the very room where he was attacked by Sherlock.

“Oh dear. You have no need to fear, I am very sorry if I have planted...troubling memories in your mind from the time we shared upstairs previously. I was startled, and I might further add that you were as well.”

John blinked.

“Let us agree to forget that rather unsavory interaction and begin anew.”

Sherlock was wasting his breath, to give such a formal apology to a man who could barely clean himself. Nevertheless, Sherlock was taught that he was to apologize if he was at fault, and quite frankly, he was at fault. John remained in his place next to the fireplace, the silence was filled with the cracks of the firewood. Sherlock cocked his head. John still did not trust him. He couldn’t be blamed.

“I promise you, John, no harm will come to you. We will sleep, only for a short time.”

He was getting through to John. Sherlock saw the way his feet moved as if he were about to walk over to Sherlock. Sherlock crossed his arms and smirked.

“I’ll be in your company, John. Why fear when we are together?”

John stared at Sherlock intently, he wasn’t sure what he wanted to do. Should he continue to watch the fire in front of him? Gaze until the flames extinguished and the embers of what was danced on the burnt wood? Sherlock huffed and turned away from John.

“As you wish, John. I am weary, and I shall retire now, if you do not wish to join me, you do not have to. I will, however, leave my door ajar so that you may join me, whenever that may be.”

John’s attention turned from Sherlock’s soft face, and to the raging flames that Sherlock warned him against moments ago. He did not see how Sherlock’s face fell at his rejection, or the way Sherlock skulked off into his room, leaving John alone in the living area. Sherlock left the door open a sliver and sank to his bed. Why did John not follow him to the room? Did he not feel safe around him? Had Sherlock been too overbearing? Sherlock shook his head. John was not yet used to the flat, to the fire, to the elements, to Sherlock. He was attacked in this very room, Sherlock imagined that it would be hard to not see the blood that was drawn from his wound. Sherlock did not mean to, he only tried to defend himself against an invader. Was he scared of Sherlock now? Is that why John didn’t want to sleep with him?

Sherlock laughed. He troubled himself with pointless thoughts. John was enamoured by the fire, that was his reason. Sherlock noticed the way John could barely keep his eyes off of the flames. Sherlock hoped that he would not hurt himself due to curiosity. He tried to push the thoughts of John being engulfed in the flames from being too close, or from a flammable object finding its way into the fireplace. He tossed and he turned but he could not relieve himself of the horrifying scenes that played in his mind. He had to return to John, he would not be able to sleep if he did, but John’s safety was his first priority. He flung the covers off of his body and flew to the living area. John was sat in front of the fireplace still, he did not stir even when Sherlock was standing a mere two feet away from him. Sherlock’s hands fumbled as he stared at the man below him. He felt guilty for what he was about to do.

“John.”

John blinked and turned to look up at Sherlock. It took a while for Sherlock to say anything to him.

“You did not put your hand into the fire, did you?”

John showed Sherlock his hands. He understood “not” and “fire”, perhaps. No burns on them, he was well-behaved, Sherlock already knew that. He shuffled his feet and crossed his arms. He would love nothing more than to return to bed but he would only be back out and checking in on John. It was only an hour left till dawn, he was not going to fall asleep that quickly. The fire was warm, and Sherlock yearned for John’s company. His bed felt harder and more frigid than usual. He blamed himself. He had expected John to fill the empty space next to m while he slumbered. However, if John wished to reside here, so would he. Sherlock walked over to his bookshelf and selected a random book. It was one of Oscar Wilde’s books, _The Canterville Ghost_. Sherlock then took his seat next to John on the floor and began reading.

It took a while, but John’s eyes finally landed on Sherlock’s book, and without even looking up at the man, Sherlock could tell that he was interested.

“Do try not to stare, John. It is impolite." 

Sherlock closed the book and initiated eye contact with John.

“Has the fire proved boring?” Sherlock laughed at his own jest.

“I have no qualms about your reading with me. It shall prove fundamental to you, and entertaining to me.”

Sherlock positioned himself closer to John, he felt the skin of John’s knee brush against his own. Had forgotten that the both of them were clad in nothing but the dressing gowns, Sherlock was wearing underwear, the same could not be said of John. Sherlock cleared his throat and begun to read aloud to the man next to him.

“When Mr. Hiram B. Otis, the American Minister, bought Canterville Chase, every one told him he was doing a very foolish thing, as there was no doubt at all that the place was haunted. Indeed, Lord Canterville himself, who was a man of the most punctilious honour, had felt it his duty to mention the fact to Mr. Otis when they came to discuss terms….”

He turned the page and caught a glance at John, who looked absolutely enthralled with the book itself. He would run his finger along the page, and at times, it would prevent Sherlock from continuing with the story, much to John’s dismay. Sherlock would only smile and tell him that he was unable to continue if John would not move his finger. Then, while Sherlock read the words aloud, John would stare into his eyes with the most sincere adoration that a person could ever feel for another. Sherlock often felt his cheeks growing hot, signaling the growing blush that tinted his pale skin. He was thankful for the fact that John was ignorant when it came to humanity, he would hate to have to explain his foolishness. John was the only one to give Sherlock such a soft look. He was not used to such affection.

Sherlock did not recall ever finishing the short story, he didn’t remember falling asleep on the floor with John. What he did remember was waking up the next morning. There was no sun, as it was covered by the clouds. His limbs ached, and the fire was out, the wood left. The book was flipped over so that the pages were smothered by the chilled wood that had been his bed for the night. He stretched and sat up, John was sprawled across the floor adjacent from Sherlock. Sherlock smiled and ran a hand through John’s hair. So soft, he thought, how perfect he was. He stood up and walked into the kitchen. He did not have the level of culinary prowess as Mrs. Hudson but he was able to cook eggs and beans on toast with exceptional skill. He made a plate for John as well.

By the time Sherlock set the plates down on the table, John was waking up. He rose from his fetal position on the floor and clapped eyes on Sherlock, who greeted him with a small smile.

“Good morning, John. Did you sleep well?”

John rubbed his eyes and walked over to the table. Sherlock took his seat and motioned for John to do the same. John looked down at the plate in front of him. He picked it up and brought it to his nose, Sherlock placed a hand on his mouth to hide the chuckle from his companion.

“It is food, John. You are to eat it.”

John stared at him. Sherlock grabbed his knife and fork and began to cut into the egg.

“You cut the egg like so, and then you slide it into your mouth.”

Sherlock opened his mouth wide and ate the piece of egg. John’s mouth moved as if he were eating as well. He was imitating Sherlock’s chewing. Sherlock swallowed and cut a piece of John’s egg.

“Here, now you try.”

He offered the egg to John who opened his mouth and ate it. Sherlock watched with a soft expression as John ate the small portion of egg with a look of fascination and delight.

“How does it taste?”

John swallowed, as Sherlock did, and gave him the biggest smile that he was capable of. Sherlock sat back in his chair and laughed.

“Good?”

 **  
** John nodded and said, “...G...Good.”


	7. An Unwanted Realization

“Now John, what do these images depict?”

 

John’s mouth scrunched up as he stared down at the book in front of him. Sherlock had started him off with children’s books first, such as Hansel and Gretel, Goldilocks, and Sleeping Beauty. To his delight, John caught on very quickly and was able to read every word in those books. Sherlock eventually decided to expand his horizons, and knowledge of things that were not written for a child’s amusement, although John became sad when reading The Little Mermaid. He did not understand why she did not have a happy ending, as all of the other characters did. It was then that Sherlock told him that happiness is not a feeling that everyone can come by, and The Little Mermaid was one such example. John did not like the answer to his question and told Sherlock that he did not wish to read such somber tales anymore. Sherlock agreed and hid the book from John’s line of sight. This happened some weeks ago.

 

“Boat.”

 

Sherlock pointed to the photograph of the boat and smiled.

 

“Correct. Now, tell me what this is.”

 

Sherlock’s finger slid down and landed on the picture of the ocean, vast and calm, though darkened due to the quality of the picture. John squinted but gave his answer.

 

“Water.”

 

“You are correct, it is water, but what specifically is it?”

 

John’s eyes veered towards the words that were printed beneath the picture.

 

“It’s the At...At...lan...tic.”

 

“Atlantic Ocean, John. Spot on.”

 

John beamed at being praised by Sherlock, and Sherlock was more than happy to compliment him on his intelligence. He noticed how hard John worked, he would even catch John reading before he retired to bed. How proud he was. Sherlock headed into the kitchen and returned with a sandwich, cut in halves. He had noticed that it was nearly three in the afternoon, meaning they missed lunch and breakfast altogether. He was not sure if John was hungry, if he even understood what hunger felt like. He smiled once he saw John’s face light up at the sight of their lunch on the table. Sherlock handed John one half, and then took his own seat in front of his half. He always waited until John ate first because he wanted to see John’s face when he took the first bite. Sherlock had not made anything too elegant, it was usually sandwiches or eggs. John preferred eggs and toast with strawberry jam but whatever Sherlock placed in front of him, he was more than happy to devour. John’s eyes closed and the only noise in the flat was John’s chewing. Sherlock chuckled and took a bite.

 

“Your reading and vocabulary has gotten considerably better since our first encounter, John. I am proud.”

 

John’s smile was covered in bits of the bread and ham. Sherlock grabbed the handkerchief from his pocket and wiped John’s mouth. He thought that he had imagined it, but John’s cheeks seemed flushed, rosier than normal. He was darker than Sherlock, then again it did not take much for a person to appear tanner than Sherlock. John seemed tanned, as if he had spent months in a sunny area, like an island, or a desert. It suited him. His hair only appeared more golden than in contrast. Sherlock pulled away and placed the soiled handkerchief on the table.

 

“Thank you.” John muttered.

 

“You are quite welcome, John.”

 

Sherlock was not imagining it, John’s cheeks were in fact crimson. He could scarcely believe it. John was blushing. What for? Sherlock had only wiped the excess food from his mouth, he had no reason to be bashful. Yet again, wasn’t Sherlock also the fool for stumbling upon himself whenever John was in the vicinity? John did not know what he was feeling, he had probably blushed at every item in the flat already, Sherlock concluded. He had the mindset of a child so had every right to be shy when Sherlock cleaned him up. Did John blush when Sherlock bathed him that first night? Did John grin like an idiot whenever Sherlock stalked about the flat?

 

“Are you not hungry, Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock’s hand flew to his mouth, so that he could bite into the sandwich that rested in his hand. He shook his head and gave a sheepish smile.  John grinned and took another bite of his.

 

“I like this.”

 

Sherlock swallowed the piece of sandwich and nodded.

 

“I am glad.”

 

His response was followed by another bout of silence between the two. John was the first to finish, as usual, because Sherlock would toy with his food before eating it. He figured that he should teach John table manners when the time came for their next meal, or for the day where John would meet other people. Sherlock scoffed, he had no other friends save John, and Sherlock had no one else for John to meet. There was Thomas, but Sherlock had not wished to keep in contact with the man, and his mind had not changed since their meeting in the chapel. His mental state had become better, though he was not healed completely, but with John around he was stable and seeing Thomas would bring all of those awful memories back. The ones filled with the cold rain, the sniggers and whispers, and the sight of Mycroft’s coffin being lowered into the earth. No, he was not ready to face them and he doubted if he ever would be.

 

“Sherlock.”

 

_Say it again._

 

“I’ve finished my food.”

 

Sherlock blinked. John stared at him with concerned eyes, he had drifted off again, forgetting where he was. He rose from his chair and grabbed the plate in the process. John stared as Sherlock walked into the kitchen and begun the task of washing the dishes. While they dined on one plate, Sherlock had forgotten to wash the plates and cups from the previous night. He groaned at the sight of the full sink but it had to be done and Sherlock had to be the one to do it.

 

“Let me.”

 

There it was. How grateful Sherlock was that his back was turned to John. How shameful it was for Sherlock to blush at nearly every word John said. He only said two words - barely a sentence! He felt John’s hand on his own, how soft when they should be cold; hands that belonged to a dead man.

 

_Wrong. They belong to John._

 

“I would...if only you would let me help, Sherlock.”

 

“It is fine, I shall complete this task on my own.”

 

Sherlock tried to ignore the crestfallen expression on John’s face.

 

“I’ve watched you, from the living area, on some nights.”

 

“Have you?”

 

John nodded, “You always look so dreadfully tired, and I’ve realized that I am the cause.”

 

Sherlock was aware that he had spent many nights watching John, feeding John, and teaching John that he had not taken the proper time for himself. He had only slept for hours at a time, but now it had become harder for Sherlock to find the right time to have a rest. John had felt guilty about it and he wanted to help.

 

“John, hush. You are not the cause of my exhaustion, I adopted this nasty habit years ago, before our meeting.”

 

“So you will not allow my aid?”

 

“I’ve nearly finished.”

 

John surprised him yet again, Sherlock did not know that John had grasped the English language so quickly. Had John spent his time simply watching, or did he lie to Sherlock and only wanted a reason to have him around? The latter seemed more probable, and it made Sherlock smile to think about such a thing.

 

_“Sherlock, you do understand what shall happen if you continue this, yes?”_

 

Mycroft’s voice rang in his head. He was stern and cold this time, not like the dream he had before where Mycroft smiled and told Sherlock sweet nothings. He remembered that day, that discussion, no, that lecture that Mycroft had given him. It was his fault, he had been stupid and careless, Mycroft was right. He had been an idiot that day, and he shudders to think what would have happened if his elder brother was not present.

 

Sherlock relinquished the dishes over to John, who seemed satisfied that he had worn Sherlock down enough to allow him to help. Sherlock took a seat upon the couch. The sound of the dishes clattering, John’s little hums of nothing - Sherlock could swear they were a thousand miles away. All that mattered to him was that cafe. The one that was directly under the sun, where the people greeted him with smiles and did not roll their eyes at the sight of him, even if they did not like him. The cafe where that lovely young man with the chestnut hair and honey-colored eyes worked. The cafe that Sherlock could never go back to because there was no more sun, no more smiles, and that young man was no longer lovely.

 

“You’re thinking.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes trailed up John’s body until their eyes met. John awaited his response.

 

“Have you gathered such from my lack of speech?”

 

John had not grasped sarcasm yet, or maybe he had in his own way and chose to ignore Sherlock’s quips. He shook his head and pressed a finger to Sherlock’s forehead, missing the way Sherlock shivered at the contact.

  
“This wrinkles appear whenever you labour under your thoughts.”

 

Sherlock smiled.

 

“Really? I did not know.”

 

John smirked and took his seat next to Sherlock on the couch. Sherlock turned around to face the kitchen and saw the sink, humming once he saw that it was empty. The dishes looked cleaner than he’d ever seen, almost as if Mrs. Hudson had magically appeared to clean Sherlock’s mess. He would not put it past her if she had done something like that.

 

“I am grateful for your assistance, John. You have done well.”

 

They had done their fair share of blushing for the day. John was only recovering from his most recent one, and Sherlock had not recovered from his own yet. He was not over the warm presence of John, he was not getting used to waking up and finding John sitting at the table or on the couch. He could not force his brain to understand that he was no longer alone, that he had John now. His hand snaked his way over to John’s own. A finger rested on the top of the tan hand, followed by another, until he was resting his hand on top of John’s. At first he smiled, feeling the smooth skin beneath his own, elated to be able to touch John in such a way that gladdened his heart. Until he saw the smiling face of the waiter flash in his mind.

 

_“You will ruin us both.”_

 

Sherlock jerked his hand away and shot up from the couch as if he had seen the face of the Devil himself. He startled John with his sudden movement, the man staring up at him wide-eyed.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock held the wicked hand to his chest and shielded it like it had nearly been chopped off. Sherlock felt the tears welling in his eyes. He had been doing well too, had gone without tears for nearly a month. It hurt, the memory, the words - they hurt and Sherlock could not stop the tears. He slowly backed away from John.

 

“I am terribly sorry, John... I’m….I must retire now.”

 

He spun around and made haste to his room, leaving John dumbfounded and concerned. He shut the door once he was inside and launched himself onto his bed. What a fool he was, what a moron, he knew better, he had been told but he never listened. He learned through Mycroft and that cafe he loved so much.

 

_Mycroft had a large workload that day and he spent the whole morning bemoaning to anyone that was around, this meant Sherlock had to hear the brunt of it. London had finally seen its first bit of sun for that week, as well as a warmer temperature, so Mycroft suggested that they go out. For once Sherlock did not disagree. It was a small place, the cafe, and the customers had the choice of dining outdoors or inside of the building. Mycroft, much to Sherlock’s surprise, had chosen the outdoors. Their time spent waiting to be catered to was filled with Mycroft’s one-sided conversations about miscellaneous things. Occasionally, he would inquire about Sherlock’s daily activities or if he had done anything of interest. Sherlock had decided to give him only brief summaries about his experiments._

 

_“Good afternoon.”_

 

_He was to be their server for the day. He gave bright smiles to the brothers and stared at Sherlock with a friendliness that he was not accustomed to. He was clean-shaven with eyes the color of the honey produced by the bees in their yard. His hair shone from the light of the sun, brown and golden and absolutely stunning. His smile so dazzling, so perfect. Sherlock did not hear when he asked a question._

 

_“Pardon, sir.”_

 

_Mycroft looked at Sherlock with an expression he could not place._

 

_“Sherlock do order something.”_

 

_Sherlock flashed a sheepish smile._

 

_“Sorry, Mycroft. Whatever you ordered shall suit me just fine.”_

 

_Mycroft rolled his eyes, but gave the waiter his friendliest grin._

 

_“Two slices of Victoria sponge, please.”_

 

_The waiter nodded and walked away, leaving the two to their conversation._

 

_“Sherlock.”_

 

_“Yes, brother?”_

 

_“Not here.”_

 

_Sherlock’s brow rose._

 

_“That sounds rather ominous.”_

 

_Mycroft did not respond, he merely gave Sherlock a stern look and watched as their server prepared their treat for the afternoon. They did not say a word until he returned with their food._

 

_“Thank you.” The way Sherlock said it came out much softer than he expected, almost as if the man saved him from a mugging or spared him a lifetime of debt by paying off his expenses. All he had done was deliver them a slice of cake with a cup of tea. Still, the smile that was given in answer made Sherlock blush. He was met with a quick jab to the shin by Mycroft’s foot. Mycroft picked up his cup of tea and moved to drink, but not before he wagged his finger at Sherlock._

 

_“If I might say, sir, your hair suits you well.”_

 

_Sherlock brought his cup to his mouth so that the server would not see how flattered he was by the comment. He gave him a curt nod to acknowledge the compliment. The server bowed and walked away. Sherlock stared into his plate the entire duration of their time there. He did not need to see Mycroft’s face in order to feel the anger emanating off of him. He was right, and upon their return to the flat, Sherlock was met with a strike to the face. It had stung, and he was sure that it was going to leave a mark for quite some time. Mycroft spoke to him with a hushed anger._

 

_“Sherlock, you do understand what shall happen if you continue this, do you not?”_

 

_It was about the waiter - he never did get his name. Sherlock nodded, holding his cheek, careful not to spill any tears in front of Mycroft. His brother adjusted his suit jacket and gave Sherlock’s hair a few brushes as if he were a child._

 

_“You will ruin us if you do not stop this immediately.”_

 

_It was harmless. He had only said but two words to the man. He was only trying to be nice._

 

_“I...am...sorry, Mycroft. It will not happen again.”_

 

_Mycroft walked off into the corridor of the manor, leaving Sherlock in the sitting room bruised and hurting. He saw Mrs. Hudson standing in the doorway out of the corner of his eye. He refused to look at her, instead brushing past her, shutting himself in his room._

 

He lied to Mycroft, it was not the last time he did it. He spoke to men and flirted with them but that was only the time he was struck by Mycroft for such a thing.

His brother would have been disappointed in Sherlock if he could have witnessed what happened in the living area. He had wanted to hold John’s hand, no, he had **_needed_** to hold John’s hand. It was wrong for men to touch another of their gender in such a way. A husband might hold his wife the way Sherlock would like to hold John; A suitor may hold hands with his mistress the way Sherlock had tried to hold John’s; But two men were not allowed to do such things. Sherlock tugged at his hair as he thought about John, who was no doubt awaiting his return. He had the audacity to invite John into his bed, to sleep with him, to share a personal space with him. How furious Mycroft would have been had borne witness to his brother’s depravity!

 

_‘You are only to save your affections for women, Sherlock. You are not allowed to love John.’_

 

Sherlock scoffed at his own thoughts. Love John? He did not love him. He could not.

 

_‘You do not love John.’_

 

_‘You do not love John.’_

 

_‘You **do not** love John.’ _

 

Sherlock repeated the sentence like a chant but he could not bring himself to believe it. He had only been with John for a short number of weeks but he could not bare the thought of being without John already. He could not go a day without admiring the features on John’s body which he so painstakingly pieced together. He loved it when they woke up on the floor together, heads touching, and the fire dying in front of them. He looked forward to teaching John a new word, or showing him a new book, or even listening to him read. Tears made their way down his cheeks.He apologized to Mycroft, he apologized to himself, but he knew now, he understood, why he held such affection and admiration towards John.

 

_‘You love John.’_

 


	8. Attacked

Days after the incident, Sherlock had made an effort to refrain from touching John in such intimate ways. He hoped that John did not think his care was lost for him, that simply not being true. Sherlock cared for him so much that he did not want John to suffer for his selfishness.

 

They were currently having a meal and Sherlock smiled as he watched John eat. The other man had wanted to practice his skills with the knife and fork so Sherlock allowed John to use the utensils on the egg that was cooked for him. He was careful with his cuts, not too small and not too large. Sherlock was so immensely proud of John, for his intelligence, cleverness, and for simply existing. Sherlock had come a long way from the first night he had begun the process of creating John and they had come so far already. Would he ever tell John the true nature of his birth? Would he realize that he was not like Sherlock? That he had scars and stitches in places that Sherlock did not?

 

_Wrong. John is not like you, he is kind, he is handsome, he is not afraid._

 

John did not know what true fear was and he had nothing to be scared of while Sherlock was around. That was, as long as Sherlock did not do anything foolish. He could not help but think about John’s face the moment their hands touched. The way his eyes traveled to their hands, that moment when he pushed his fingers in between the spaces of Sherlock’s own. That small but warm smile that he wore. To Sherlock, John looked the picture of happiness in that brief moment. He sighed; he did not want to ruin John in the same way that he ruined his brother.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock set his teacup down.

 

“What is it, John?”

 

“Are you unhappy?”

 

“Pardon...me?”

 

John set his utensils down the way Sherlock showed him before he ate.

 

“You’ve not smiled in days. Am I at fault?”

 

Sherlock frowned. He did not like upsetting John, but how could he tell him the reason for his melancholy if John would not understand?

 

“Did I bother you when we...that moment on the sofa. Was that contact unwanted?”

 

Sherlock shook his head before he even found the words to respond.

 

“No, of course not, John. What would possess you to say such things?”

 

John swallowed and said, “We haven’t sat by the fire in some days. Is it untoward to say that I...I rather miss it?”

 

“If you prefer, we can do as such tonight.”

 

Sherlock was met with disapproval from his companion.

 

“I do not want it to be forced, Sherlock. If we are to continue our activities, I would like it if you were happy doing so.”

 

Sherlock’s mouth formed into the faintest of smiles at John’s words. He folded his hands on the table and stared into John’s eyes - eyes he could lose himself in. They were gentle, compassionate, and they were beautiful.

 

“You worry about my happiness, do you?”

 

John pouted and nodded.

 

“Constantly.”

 

Sherlock laughed at John’s response. He truly cared about Sherlock. John, however, did not seem amused. Sherlock cleared his throat.

 

“John, I would love nothing more than to gaze into the fire with you by my side.”

 

There it was. Such a perfect smile, full of contentment, love, bliss. Sherlock set his hands on his lap, away from John’s sight; he mustn’t see him fight the temptation of touching him. What Sherlock would not give to hold John’s cheek in his, to be able to feel the smooth skin against his own. He grimaced, such improper, degrading thoughts swimming through his head. He managed to suppress them, after that day with Mycroft, but they were slowly returning despite his efforts to keep them away. He pushed them far back into his mind, to where he could not access them. He had been fine for the past few years, not one lustful thought found its way into Sherlock’s mind. He was too busy, too smart, for them.

 

_Too lonely._

 

He frowned. Friends he did not have but he had learned to ignore the ache in his chest, the void that had yet to be filled. Mycroft did little to heal Sherlock’s loneliness, but he soon realized that he was not what Sherlock needed. During his adolescent years, he discovered that the effects of injecting cocaine helped to numb the pain of his isolation.

 

_You broke his heart._

 

Sherlock closed his eyes. The first time Mycroft happened upon Sherlock’s cache, he was angered, but it was not the kind of anger that was expected. He was disappointed. He was hurt. They did not talk for months, and the lack of conversation between the two weighed on Sherlock more than he cared to admit.

 

“Are you well, Sherlock?”

 

He had forgotten that John was even there. He meant to hide his suffering from him, but John had borne witness to it; Sherlock’s destructive behavior.

 

“I am...quite alright.” Sherlock’s voice wavered as he replied. His facade was weak, he was sure that John saw through him. He had to distract him, to focus his attention elsewhere.

 

“Might I inquire about something, John?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Why do you find such fascination in watching the fire? You do not tire of it?”

 

John’s eyes darted around the room, as if the answer would be written on one of the items in the flat. Sherlock rested his hand underneath his chin. He would be amused to hear this answer, no doubt. John’s eyes shot back to his.

 

“I do not tire of the fire, Sherlock. I quite like it, with its bright flames that threaten to burn my skin. I know you do not like me straying so close to the fire, but I cannot help it. I enjoy the peril that has been thrust upon me.”

 

Sherlock had not thought about that. John loved the danger that the fire posed to him. Did he think that Sherlock took pleasure in such things as well? In all the time they spent together, the two men always finished the day by sitting in front of the fireplace. Sherlock had yet to play his violin for his friend. What a wondrous thing, to play for John. Sherlock did not favor crowds but for John he would play every piece known to man if asked. To play with another body in the room was something, to play with John in the room was everything.

 

“This makes you happy, does it? The surge of excitement as each ember flickers towards you, threatening to sear your flesh.”

 

“I would like to say yes, but it has not as of late. As I’ve said before, I do miss your company.”

 

“Why is that?”

 

“It gets lonesome here, when you retire to bed. I find myself staring towards your door, hoping that you would return and join me.”

 

“Why do you not simply sleep? Do you not feel fatigue?”

 

John shook his head.

 

“I do, but I do not slumber for long. You often wake during the night.”

 

Sherlock cocked his head.

 

“Do I?”

 

“On some nights, I hear sounds come from your room at ungodly hours of the night. It is not the same noise as when you talk, mind you, but it sounds...oh, I cannot place it. It saddens me whenever I hear it.”

 

Sherlock stiffened. It rained that night, and all be could think of was Mycroft’s coffin, and how no one cared that he was alone in the world. It was bad on some nights, Sherlock tried to block it out, the flashes of his wake, the people who sat huddled together on the other side and whispered amongst each other while Sherlock held back tears. On these nights Sherlock would cry until he fell asleep or until when he had simply dehydrated himself to the point where the tears stopped flowing.

 

John had heard him.

 

He cried in his room to protect John from his gross displays of emotion but he failed. Sherlock would wake in the morning feeling as if he had not slept in years, and he tried to remove the crusty trails of what were his tears from his face. On those mornings he would crave the substance that Mycroft detested, but when he saw John’s smiling face, he thought that he would be able to get through the day. He was always right.

 

“I’ve not a clue as to what you are referring, John.”

 

“Ah, that is too bad.”

 

John picked his plate up and carried it to the kitchen, leaving Sherlock alone at the table. It was while John was cleaning his dish that Sherlock realized John was only clad in the robe that was given to him his first night in the flat. Sherlock groaned, he had completely neglected to bestow John with proper clothing. It was not as if John was going to be outside anytime soon, he needed to learn a bit more before he was ready for the outside world.

 

_You are not ready for John’s departure, you are afraid he will leave, never to return._

 

Sherlock shook his head. John would not leave him, he was merely overacting. However, Sherlock was the only other person John knew. What if he met another man or even a woman out there and favored their company over Sherlock’s? Would he pester him? Would he beg Sherlock every hour of every night to let him see his new friend again? Or would John become angry with him for hiding him in the flat for so long? The worst scenario that Sherlock’s mind could conjure was John falling in love with that person, or simply growing tired of Sherlock and leaving him alone. Sherlock was not sure if he would be able to survive without his John. To be left alone in the flat without a soul to talk to, even someone he had created especially for himself not being able to stand his company. Sherlock was sure that he would take his own life. He was also certain that no one would notice his absence either, and his body would be left to rot.

 

“John.”

 

John turned around.

 

“Hm?”

 

“Would you care for new clothing? My robe hardly suffices as proper wardrobe.”

 

John looked down at his attire and looked back up at Sherlock.

 

“What are you implying?”

 

Sherlock sighed. He did not want to take John out with him but he had to be sure that the clothes fit. He brought a finite amount of money with him to Baker Street and he did not want to see it wasted on ill-fitting clothes. He gave John a smirk.

 

“If you will let me, I would like to buy you a new wardrobe.”

 

John’s eyes widened.

 

“You would do this for me?”

 

Sherlock nodded.

 

“I would.”

 

John mulled it over in his mind and then grinned madly, laughing. He has wanted this for a long time then, why did he simply not ask sooner?

 

“I did not want to impose…” John finally provided.

 

He did not want to trouble Sherlock. Now that Sherlock thought on it, John rarely asked Sherlock for anything, not even for a change in food. Sherlock had to deduce that John would rather eat a slice of toast than sausage and eggs. He was quiet, Sherlock had assumed earlier on that it was simply because John was still new to the world, but maybe that was not it. Maybe John simply found pleasure in keeping to himself. Sherlock was fine with that.

 

“Nonsense, John, if you desire new clothes then I will gladly purchase them.”

 

John pressed his hands together and looked away from Sherlock. He was embarrassed. In a matter of moments, Sherlock made his way over to his companion and placed both hands upon his shoulders.

 

“There is no need to be ashamed, my dear John.”

 

“Thank you…” Was all John muttered. Sherlock thought it best if he set off now and leave John alone. He went to his room and returned with his coat. He stopped in front of the door and turned to John, who was now seated in front of his treasured fire.

 

“I am off now, John.”

 

John hummed and watched Sherlock exit their flat. Immediately, John jumped up and watched out of the window. Sherlock had just climbed into a hansom cab. He sighed and returned to his spot on the floor.

 

Sherlock was en route to the nearest clothing store. He did not want John to look like a street urchin, he was with Sherlock, and Sherlock Holmes does not tolerate unfashionable clothes. Sherlock smiled, Mycroft would be proud. It took the driver nearly ten minutes to reach their destination. Sherlock paid a generous amount, and walked into the shop to find a suitable outfit for John, as well as a few shirts, trousers, socks, pants, and shoes. The clerk walked over to Sherlock with a smug smile spread across his face.

 

“And how might I help you, young gentleman?”

 

Sherlock flashed a genial smile towards the elderly man.

 

“My companion is in need of a new suit.”

 

“Splendid! Tell me, what does this companion look like?”

 

_The sun on a cloudy day._

 

“He is of short stature, about five foot and six inches in height. Not quite heavy but robust in size, broad-shoulders, slight curve of the stomach, strong legs, long feet. Narrow-hips…”

 

The clerk simply stared at Sherlock.

 

“...I’m sure you have formed a picture of him in your mind.”

 

_I hope you’ve made him handsome as well._

 

The man nodded.

 

“Follow me.”

 

He led Sherlock towards the back of the store, reserved for men who were too tall, too heavy, or too short. John was not the average height of a man, Sherlock paid little attention to that. The clerk held his hand underneath the various suits that were hanging up, as well as folded on tables and showcases.

 

“I do hope you’ll find what you are looking for.”

 

Sherlock tipped his head in thanks, prompting the man to scurry off to the next customer that walked in. Sherlock walked up and down the section of the store, searching for the right suit for John. He deserved the best, and only the best.

 

“There you are.” His eyes honed in on a brown suit on display. The ensemble went together splendidly; the shoes were burgundy, and the tie a dark plaid color. The suit itself was wool, and a lovely shade of brown, topped off with a bowler hat of the same color. Sherlock had no doubt in his mind that John would look incredibly handsome in it. He called for the clerk who rushed back over to him.

 

“Are we ready to make a purchase?”

 

Sherlock nodded and pointed at the suit.

 

“This suit shall suffice.”

 

“Splendid choice, sir! Shall I box it for you?”

 

“Yes please.”

 

The elderly man smiled.

 

“Very good sir, now if you’ll follow me.”

 

Sherlock held the box to his chest tightly the entire ride back to the flat. He could barely contain himself, he wanted to see John’s face when he opened the box. He would be ecstatic, Sherlock knew already. The suit was pricy, but such was the way of high fashion. John would be quite the dapper man. He had to be informed by the driver that they arrived at his destination.

 

“Apologies, I had not noticed.” Sherlock would not have apologized had it been any other day, but he was in too joyous of a mood. He paid the driver and watched as the horse carted the cab away. With a wide smile on his face, he looked up at the window of his flat, John was not there. He started to walk over to the door when he was stopped by a, “Oi, freak!”

 

He turned to face the person who shouted that horrid name at him. It was a man and a woman. The couple did not look too well off, they were not poverty-stricken, but neither were they middle-class or even upper for that matter. The man was clearly drunk, his beady eyes latched onto Sherlock’s. The woman looked none too happy either. Sherlock had never seen them before.

 

“What is it?” He spat. He was in a hurry to get back to his flat.

 

The male took a swig of his bottle.

 

“You were in the cemetery, yeah?”

 

Sherlock eyes widened. Did they see him that night? Did they watch as he stole limbs from corpses?

 

“I...I was visiting my brother.”

 

The woman scoffed her expression skeptical.

 

“Right.”

 

They did not believe him. They saw, he had been stupid, so careless. They were going to report him to the police and he was going to be arrested. He would not last in prison, his mind would tear to pieces, he could not be away from John for such a long period of time.

 

The man shoved Sherlock, causing him to drop his box.

 

“We don’t take too kindly to freaks, right Sally?”

 

The woman, now identified as Sally, smirked and nodded.

 

“You get off on them, don’t you?”

 

“Beg pardon?”

 

The belligerent man laughed and pushed him again. Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw that the two were not alone. The group of men circled around Sherlock, staring at him with hungry eyes, waiting for the chance to tear him to shreds.

 

“I’ll bet he goes up to his flat and wanks off to the thought of em’, you sick bastard.”

 

They thought he enjoyed the sight of dead bodies. One part of Sherlock was relieved that was all they gathered from his appearance in the graveyard that night, the other was revolted that he would be aroused from such a horrid sight. He was shoved again before a fist met his cheek. He could try to fight them off but there were too many. He curled himself into a ball as protection from their kicks and blows reminded of his time as a child when this was a regular occurrence.

 

“Freak!”

 

They all chanted it as they attacked him in front of his own home. The pain was beginning to be unbearable, and he was slowly losing consciousness. The taunts and the jeers suddenly turned into screams of pain. Sherlock opened his eyes, he could scarcely believe it, John pushed his current attacker off of him and returned the swings to the man’s face. The others who cornered him were groaning on the floor except for two of them who stood up and attempted to remove John from the man he was assaulting.

 

“John!” Sherlock shouted suddenly. The sound of a whistle was heard and another stranger, a policeman this time, came and broke up the fight between John and the aggressors. John had a face like thunder, and tried to free himself from the policeman’s grasp.

 

“Break it up!”

 

Sherlock’s body ached, but he did not want John clapped in cuffs.

 

“John! Do as he says.”

 

Immediately, John stopped struggling, but did not take his eyes off of the men who jumped Sherlock. The policeman released his hold on John.

 

“Bloody hell! What happened here?”

 

“To answer your question, officer, I was attacked, and my friend here came to my aid.”

 

The cop looked over at Sally, who watched the whole ordeal.

 

“Right. I know this bloke,” He kicked the man’s limp leg, “And I know her. Troublemakers they are, I let him off with a warning last time, this time I’ll not be so kind.”

 

He picked up the inebriated man and handcuffed him.

 

“Off we go, Anderson. You’ll be sleeping this one off at Scotland Yard.”

 

John went over to Sherlock and helped him up. Sherlock scooped the box up from the ground as he stood. The officer looked back at them.

 

“Same goes for you lot, this happens again and you’ll be sharing a cell, understand?”

 

They both nodded.

 

“If I might ask, what is your name?”

 

The policeman answered, “Lestrade, Inspector Gregory Lestrade.”

 

“Inspector.” Was Sherlock’s parting word. He was led by John back to their flat. Sherlock frowned; John’s gift would have to wait, sadly.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story is finally picking up!


	9. First Kiss

Sherlock relied on John for support to ascend the steps into their flat. He could barely stand on his own, the gang that attacked him achieving their incentive to hurt him. He could hear John’s voice as they neared the front door. Sweet nothings, Sherlock told himself. Those kind words that John whispered to him, they meant nothing, they were only meant to calm Sherlock down from the shock of the beating he experienced _right in front_ of their home.

 

John had been watching Sherlock through the window, he had to have been. How else would he have known? He might have been there since Sherlock left, awaiting his return. Sherlock did not leave the flat very often, if only to acquire a meal for the both of them. This was the longest he had been out and he expected John to become worried. He wondered how John felt now, having to carry him up the stairs, nearly getting arrested, having to fight another person - all the things he had just done for Sherlock.

 

_I do not deserve him._

 

John saved him. He rushed to his aid, clad in nothing more than a robe, and saved Sherlock from his attackers. What did he do to deserve such a wonderful person like John? He created him, yes, but he did not think that his creation would turn into such an honourable man. Sherlock sighed and grasped the box tighter to his side. It was bent at the edges, and covered in the mud that it was dropped in. He let out a sigh, he was eternally grateful that they had not gotten to the box. They would have opened it, and they would have destroyed it. John would have been crushed.

 

“We’ve arrived, Sherlock.”

 

How did John do it? How could he be so gentle with Sherlock after he was infuriated moments ago? Sherlock closed his eyes briefly. He ached all over and he wanted nothing more than to lie down and forget that it ever happened - believe that he had dreamt it all up; he would wake and find himself alone at the manor again.

 

John sat him down on the armchair in their living area and walked away. After finally being left alone, Sherlock decided to remove his coat and set it on top of the battered box that he was too ashamed to look at. He had only wanted to do something nice for John but he couldn’t even do that much. He pressed a finger to his lip and removed it. The skin had torn open, his finger coming away with blood. He did not want to see what he looked like, his face hurt, his ribs hurt, everything hurt. The only good thing to come out of it was the arrest of the two who initiated it. When he was younger, he had not been so lucky. The hardest part was creating a different lie each time. Mycroft knew, he always did. The way Sherlock’s head hung when his older brother approached him, the fact that Sherlock had always made it his mission to wear long-sleeved shirts to hide the bruises, the way he cried in his room every night as if Mycroft could not hear.

 

_“They are idiots, little brother. Only idiots hate what they do not understand.”_

 

Mycroft said that one night after Sherlock came home a bruised and bloodied mess. He had cried when Mycroft inquired about his state, and to his surprise, he was given a hug and those words were whispered into his ear as if it were a secret between the two. He took Sherlock to the kitchen and prepared him hot chocolate, and even let Sherlock sleep in the bed with him. He tried to make him feel better, but he was ill-equipped when it came to emotion. Sherlock learned later on that it was the subtle things that Mycroft did for him showed that he cared. What would he say now? That man, Anderson, attacked Sherlock because they thought he became aroused by the sight of putrid, rotting bodies. They called him a freak, someone who did not deserve respect, a person to be ostracized by everyone else simply because they were not normal. He hated the very word. It was so cruel, so vile, and to be labeled such a thing incensed Sherlock. Though anger gave way to sadness very shortly, and so there Sherlock sat, struggling to hold back the bitter tears upon realizing that nobody would think of Sherlock as anything but a freak. As a child, he learned to ignore the taunt because children are vicious to people who are different. The whole world seemed to be. Then, as the years passed, the word went from shouts to whispers. It was the thing that everyone murmured whenever Sherlock was around. The way the men bent their heads and chuckled whenever he walked into the room, or the hushed voices of the women who stared at him during social events. It did not take him long to figure out what they gossiped about. It was him; The Freak, Mycroft’s Queer Younger Brother, The Strange One, or one of the mild ones he’d been given, Him. Mycroft had tried to distract him from it by dragging him around to meet some of the more esteemed guests of the party but Sherlock only looked like the peculiar sibling that followed his brother everywhere.

 

“Sherlock, I’ve gathered the medical supplies from upstairs,” John spoke as he returned.

 

In his hands was one of the metal trays from the top floor, covered with rags, bandages, and antiseptic. Sherlock was mildly surprised to see John with the supplies.

 

“What do you intend do with that?”

 

“Treat your wounds, of course.”

 

John knelt down in front of the chair and brought careful fingers up to Sherlock’s face to access the wounds. Sherlock found this peculiar, did John think to tend to Sherlock on his own?

 

“What are you doing, John?”

 

“It is alright, Sherlock, I can do this.”

 

Sherlock brought John’s hand away from his wounded cheek and set it on his lap.

 

“Send for a doctor, there is no need for you to waste your efforts on me.”

 

John looked shocked and possibly offended at Sherlock’s words.

 

“Do you not want me to do this?”

 

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but John had already predicted what he was going to say.

 

“Fear not, I’ve been reading your medical books and I am confident that I will put my learnings to good use.”

 

Sherlock’s face softened at John’s confession.

 

“You’ve read those books quite often?”

 

John nodded.

 

“I find them interesting, and part of me thinks that, for events such as this, I will be able to help you. You will not need to send for any doctor as long as I am here, Sherlock.”

 

_You do not deserve me, John, for there is nothing I can give you. I can only be a burden._

 

“Such words you say…” Sherlock trailed off towards the end. Why was John so kind to him? How long had he spent reading those books on biology and the practices of medicine solely for the purpose of treating Sherlock’s wounds and ailments? He must have done it while Sherlock slept. He studied every word, examined every picture, all for Sherlock. The wounded man shook his head in disbelief, it was the perfect man he set out to create, and a perfect man John had become. The way he fussed at Sherlock’s left cheek. From the amount of rags John used on it, he deduced that the cut was wide, but not deep enough to require stitches. That, Sherlock was grateful for. The flat was deathly quiet as John cleaned the cuts scattered across Sherlock’s face. He could not help but realize that each time John looked at one of the wounds, his eyes lit with something Sherlock could not determine. He was upset, of course he was, Sherlock saw how dangerous he looked when Gregory broke up the fight; how he knew that John could destroy the inspector effortlessly if Sherlock had not stopped him. He was so fierce and protective of...of him.

 

_Would he care as greatly as he does if he knew that you are quite the pariah?_

 

John’s seen them now. The other people that lurked outside. He’s seen the ones who were wicked and wanted nothing more than to hurt people who’ve done nothing wrong, and he’s seen one of the people who helps others. From such a short view of the outside world, what did John make of it all? Would he still want to accompany Sherlock on those days where he would have to venture outside? It was moments like this where Sherlock wondered just what went on in the other man’s head. John dropped another blood-soaked rag onto the tray. He placed another bandage on the cleaned cut.

 

“Why would they do such a thing to you?”

 

John sounded absolutely devastated. Sherlock could not bring himself to tell him the truth. All he’d done over the course of the day was upset John. It began at breakfast when he had John believe that he was the cause for his sadness, and now, all he had done was run out to buy him clothes, but here they both were. Why didn’t John leave him? Why doesn’t John leave him now? He would not be surprised if he woke up the next morning to find the flat depressingly empty. Maybe there would be a note, if John’s writing skills were as good as Sherlock hoped, or there would be nothing at all. It would only be the feeling of abandonment and Sherlock would have to come to terms with it once again.

 

“They simply mistook me for another person. They were positively besotted, John, I doubt they knew who they were assaulting.”

 

Sherlock hoped that John would not see through his lie. Not as Mycroft had always done in his childhood.

 

_You cannot mistake their hatred._

 

John frowned but returned to disinfecting Sherlock’s face.

 

“How did you know to save me?”

 

“I heard the shouting. When I came to the window, I saw you on the ground. I could not sit by while you were attacked, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock smirked. Heroes did not exist, but if they did, John would be one of them. As John finished tending to Sherlock’s face. He placed the rag on the tray and gave a smile of reassurance to Sherlock.

 

“Would you like to see?”

 

_He is repulsed, he is repulsed, he is repulsed._

 

“Would I?”

 

John nodded.

 

“Only to assess the damage.”

 

Sherlock nodded and watched as John left the room. Sherlock brought his hand up toward his left cheek, seeing as how John spent the most time on that side of his face. It hurt, to say the least. John had created tiny strips from the bandages to place on Sherlock’s face. His cheek was swollen, and no doubt bruised. He tried not to think about the attack. Even though it had just happened, he did not want to dwell on it any longer than he had to. He should be accustomed to such treatment, if the children that lived near him had anything to say about it. At first, he tried to be nice, to smile at them, to laugh at their jests, to be normal just as they had been. Of course he had to ruin it by saying something odd or just simply...being himself. They ignored him at first whenever he said something they did not understand, or did not want to hear. Sherlock thought that meant that they were entertained by his conversations. He would talk to them about bees, or that he cut an earthworm’s head off once to test the regeneration claims. They recoiled in disgust. Soon after, they began to avoid Sherlock, especially after he had brought up several of the children’s personal lives (she should have known that her father was committing adultery). He, of course, did not understand what they were doing, that they did not like him, so he continued to pester them. He was cornered by a few of the boys that he followed around one day and, very much like today, they beat him and chanted that hideous word as they hurt him.

 

_“Freak!”_

 

The other children did not help him, they only laughed as he was kicked, and hit, and broken. The boys only stopped because their parents returned from their outings and there was nothing worse than being late for supper. Not a one checked to see if he was even alright. He limped home and sobbed as he told Mycroft all about it. Mycroft was still young in comparison to the middle-aged couples that littered their neighborhood, not to mention that their parents died just a few years prior. The parents of the bullies looked mortified that their child would even do something as monstrous as attack Sherlock, they told Mycroft that they would punish them immediately. Sherlock was not able to wander the streets as freely anymore.

 

A teardrop landed on his hand. He was crying, what a pathetic man he was. To be brought to tears because he was beat up. A grown man sobbing as if he were a child.

 

_Do not let John see you in this state._

 

He tried to stop the tears but to no avail. It was all too painful for him. He did not want to be reminded of his social status; rich he was, intelligent yes, but friends, social circles, he had none. He was to be reminded of it at all times that no one would ever care for a man like him. He was strange, he was cold, and he was a freak.

 

“Sherlock I’ve brought you the…”

 

_He will leave now. You have displayed too much emotion. He will hate you and you will be alone again…_

 

He wanted nothing more than to shut his mind off. Always racing, always ridiculing him - tearing him apart as he lay prone under the constant barrage. He wiped at his eyes furiously although the movements tugged at his injuries and made him hiss. He had cried in front of John, why would he do such an idiotic thing?

 

“Are you alright?”

 

Sherlock nodded as he halted his tears. He could not speak for his voice was too choked up. If a word so much as left his mouth, he would be a sobbing mess and John would hate it and leave. He could not risk John’s disapproval. His friend rushed over to his side and forced the other to stare into his eyes. The urge to cry was even harder then.

 

“What is the matter? Why are you crying?”

 

Sherlock merely shook his head and begun to fiddle with his hands. He could not tell John that he was hated by society at large. He would be angry to discover that he risked his freedom for a man that no one liked. He pushed John away softly and reached for his coat. John grabbed his hand, forcing him to release the coat, and guided it back over to his lap.

 

“Sherlock, please tell me what is wrong. I can not stand to see you cry.”

 

Sherlock looked away from those kind eyes. There was no way he could possibly explain, why wouldn’t John leave him be?

 

The way he held Sherlock’s arms, he truly wanted to know what had distressed Sherlock to the point  he wept. They would stay like this forever if Sherlock did not open his mouth so he had no choice. He could already hear John’s hurtful words.

 

“Would you think any less of me if I told you?”

 

John smiled.

 

“This sounds dire. Are we out of milk, by chance?”

 

Sherlock laughed, but he could not stop the tears at this point. He wished John would let him retire to his room, at least until he was able to compose himself.

 

“Sherlock…”

 

_You know that I will tell you anything you wish when you utter my name._

 

“Oh John, why did you come to my aid? Why did you risk your freedom for a man like me?”

 

“I’ve already told you, I could not sit idle while they tormented you.”

 

“What if I had told you that they acted in such a vile way because they detest me?”

 

Sherlock’s chest twinged as he witnessed John’s mouth hang open. This was it, John too would abhor Sherlock. He would avoid him at every possible moment despite the small space they lived in. He would treat him just as the children did, as people do now.

 

“The words you say, Sherlock.”

 

“The words I say ring true, John.” He tried miserably to retain his composure although he cried like an infant. “How is that you’ve come to be in my company for so long, and not even so much as noticed the fact that I’ve barely any visitors? I’ve not acquired posts for ages, nor have you ever met another soul, save for Inspector Lestrade. I am alone, John, hated and despised for being anything other than the person society expects me to be! They attacked me because they had every right to! I am nothing more than a freak, John. You would be a fool to stay...to join me in my isolation...you would do well, I think, out there. People would favor you, women will love you. You will forget about me in time so I urge you to go. I will ruin you, John. I will drag you into the desolate world that is loneliness and you too will come to resent me in time.”

 

Sherlock braced himself for the words he knew that were coming. He did not want John to go, but he did not want him to suffer as he did. John was everything they expected a man to be out there. The world would love him.

 

“I’ve no desire to leave you, Sherlock.”

 

_Do not do this. Do not remain here with me. I love you, and I’ll lavish you in selfish love. Leave and marry a woman who will love you as I cannot._

 

Sherlock sniffled. He did not know whether to smile and laugh or crumple and sob harder.

 

“You will want to eventually. I’d rather you do it now so that, maybe, I will not be so pained”

 

“Why would you?”

 

Sherlock hesitated for a moment. He had said too much already, John was now pushing him further into embarrassment.

 

“...I...I will miss you...terribly…”

 

John’s eyes lit up at the gentle voice in which Sherlock spoke.

 

“And do you think that I will not miss you?”

 

_Why must you be so good to me? Why won’t you hate me the same as everyone else?_

 

“Whatever would prompt you to desire my presence?”

 

John smiled one of those smiles that made Sherlock positively weak. Those thoughts began swimming through his mind again. He yearned for John, he pined for him, but he could not do that to him. He could not defile John.

 

“Sherlock...I’ve...well I’m not quite sure what it is, but I cannot tire of you. It is impossible for me to ever grow weary of seeing your face when in fact that is all I look forward to in the mornings.”

 

He stopped speaking for a bit to gather his thoughts. Sherlock waited patiently and earnestly to hear what John had to say next.

 

“That day I had asked about those noises coming from your room. I know that you’ve spent many a night weeping alone in there. I only wished that I could comfort you in those moments, but what could I offer you? I know nothing of your struggles, and I did not want to intrude. What can I do, Sherlock, to help you?

 

You are mad, but I love every moment of it. To live with someone as extraordinary as you...it is amazing. Sherlock, you are fantastic, you are wonderful...you are brilliant. And there is nothing that would make me happier than to be with you and to bask in your brilliance. I do not know much about the world, but I do know that I love you.”

 

_You are everything that Mycroft has told me to hate, but to hate you, John, is something I can never do._

 

Without warning, John moved up and pressed his lips against Sherlock’s own. The shorter man had rose a little from his spot on the floor, whereas Sherlock never moved. He had paused under the touch of John’s lips for just a moment as every reason not to continue berated his mind. He threw his inhibitions to the wind and kissed back. Sherlock had practically melted. He leaned forward with his entire body, his hands going to John’s broad shoulders as the the other man held his waist. There was the insistent thought to stop immediately, to tell John that this was forbidden and that what he sought would be unobtainable. To be with Sherlock was a death sentence but for a second Sherlock believed the price of death was worth the passion they were now sharing. John furthered the kiss, tongue probing at Sherlock’s lips until he parted them to allow John inside.

Sherlock pulled away first, panting deeply as his breath had been taken by John. His lips were swollen from the crushing kiss and the cut at the corner throbbed but with a pain he could ignore. John had never kissed anyone before, how he become so skilled?

 

_You taste like the Forbidden Apple.You tantalize me but I cannot have you, John. Not like this._

 

“How did that feel?” John asked with a tone of arousal. He was pleased with himself. Sherlock loved every moment of it, but he could not help but berate himself for letting it happen. To love John was illegal, Sherlock could not bear it if the people of England branded John a freak as well. He loved John too much to bear witness to his being outcasted by people who barely knew him. God how he loved him so.

 

“It was everything I could ever hope for, John.”

 

_Do it again, I do not ever want to forget how your lips feel against mine. So coarse, so determined, so wonderful._

 

John beamed and moved in to kiss Sherlock again, who did nothing to stop it either. He was met with disappointment as John parted earlier than he did previously. Sherlock’s hand landed on his coat, it was then he remembered the box that lay underneath it. John’s suit.

 

“I almost forgot. Would you care to see your gift?”

 

Sherlock nearly laughed at John’s sheer excitement to see what Sherlock had gotten him. He lifted his coat up and handed him the mistreated box. John’s face dropped slightly at the sight, causing Sherlock to worry deeply.

 

“Do forgive the ungodly state of it, I had it in my hold at the time of the attack. I assure you that the contents inside are unharmed.”

 

John removed the cover to unveil his suit. Sherlock wondered if his face would become stuck in that smile that he wore. He was ecstatic, to say the least.

 

“Do you like it?”

 

John knelt on the floor and held the waistcoat up. He laughed and nodded.

 

“I shall wear it as soon as I am able.”

 

Sherlock could not contain himself, he wanted to see John in the suit, he could not wait a moment longer.

 

“We shall go for a walk tomorrow, if the weather is pleasant enough.”

 

John placed the waistcoat back inside of the box and went to Sherlock to give him yet another kiss.

 

“Thank you.” He whispered.

 

Sherlock gave him a curt nod but he could not help but worry. He kissed John three times already. He had gone against everything Mycroft said. He did not want to think of about it.

 

_“You will ruin us both.”_

 

As those words rang in his head, all he could do was think about what he had just done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slow updates. School has begun again and I am drowning in AP work, as well as other extra curricular. Not to mention that my beta, the lovely Chanolay, is a very busy woman!


	10. Old Friends

The hours that came after the kiss seemed like an eternity to Sherlock. He tried to busy himself by conducting countless experiments, all of which took a little over two hours, he paced around the house, he did not wish to venture outside for the remainder of the day. He cooked for the both of them with meat he had acquired some days ago. It was a simple roast. A recipe that Mrs. Hudson had taught him years prior. Every so often he would halt his whirlwind around the flat to stare at John, who sat in front of the fire, so calm he looked, so content. He would not bother Sherlock or attempt to ask him what was the matter, just wearing a small smile on his face. Sherlock longed to join him - sit in the empty spot next to John. What would he say? What would they talk about? The assault or the kiss? Sherlock would prefer to speak of the kiss that he had loved and he wanted nothing more than for John to shower him in thousands more, but then again the thought of those kisses terrified him.

It was almost as if John felt Sherlock’s eyes on him, he turned to face him with the same smile on his face.

“Is something the matter, Sherlock?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Supper is ready.”

John rose from his seat. “It smells wonderful.”

Sherlock nodded at the compliment. He went into the kitchen to bring the food out, returning shortly with the tray and setting it on the table. He was about to head back into the kitchen before he felt John’s gentle fingers wrap around his wrist.

“I’ll gather the plates, Sherlock.”

“That’s quite alright, John.”

“Nonsense, take your seat and I’ll be but a moment.”

Reluctantly, Sherlock sat down and watched as John padded into the kitchen. His smile never faltered after that moment. John appeared to Sherlock to be in a state of bliss. He wanted to tell John that no good could come of it, that there would only be heartbreak in the end, but whenever his gaze fell upon the blond man, he could not bring himself to speak a word of ill-will. It was not as if he was eager to put an end to it either. He yearned for a moment such as the one from earlier in the day, and although he knew better, he could not help but love it. He could not help loving John. His companion returned with the plates and silverware in his hand. He placed them upon the table carefully, and then took his own seat.

“What is the meal tonight?”

“A roast, to be more specific, roast pork.”

John’s brows rose in excitement. This was the first time Sherlock had ever made a roast. He could not fight the smile that came to his face as John hurriedly lifted the lid of the tray, the aroma of succulent meat wafting out into the room. He cut a piece for Sherlock and then a rather large one for himself.

“Your attention seems to be solely on the roast, you’ve completely ignored the mash and the peas and carrots as well.”

John blushed and immediately moved toward the two accompanying bowls of mashed potatoes and vegetables. Sherlock placed a hand on top of John’s.

“I jest, John. Eat whatever you desire.”

“Thank you. I would like to sample your other dishes as well, I am sure they are delicious.”

“You flatter me.”

There were a few moments of silence that passed between them before Sherlock decided to tell John the schedule for the remainder of the day.

“After we’ve finished here, I will have a bath, and then retire to bed.”

John nodded.

“Our plans or tomorrow?”

“Fear not, John, I have not forgotten about the outing.”

John smiled, cutting himself another slice of the roast.

“And what shall we do regarding the state of your…” He gestured towards Sherlock’s face. Sherlock frowned, he would have to hide it, would he not? There was no way to avoid it though. He would have to brave the public remarks and all.

“I can do nothing about it. We will have to get by with the hope that I will not run into anymore skirmishes during our time outside.”

Their conversation ended there. They both cleaned up their dinner in the quiet company of each other, occasionally they stealing glances at one another, and if caught, simply flashing a shy smiles. John sat on the couch and watched as Sherlock fluttered about with his pajamas draped over his arm as he  prepared his bath. He took his seat with John as he waited for the tub to fill. His eyes were fixed on the flames, whereas John’s were fixed on him.

“You do realize that when the season turns we will have to extinguish the flames?”

John chuckled and shrugged. “Such grim thoughts at this time of night.”

Sherlock returned the laugh.

“I am sorry to have brought up a rather somber thought but I only inquired to discover what you would do to occupy your time during those unfortunate months.”

“I am in your company, Sherlock. I doubt that I will ever descend so far into boredom with you nearby.”

Sherlock’s cheeks tinged with pink at the words - So charming, so modest, so wonderful. He should have seen it coming, when John’s lips pressed against his own. It was swift and not as intimate as the first time, but filled to the brim with an identical passion.

“The light from the fire does wonders to your appearance.”

Sherlock was ill-equipped to deal with such words. He only meant to while away the time! Fortunately, the tub would be filled to the brim by now and his time in the bath would be ample enough to form responses for John’s words.

“If you’ll pardon me, I must bathe now.”

Not even waiting to hear a response from John, Sherlock shot up and walked into the bathroom. He closed the door behind him and nearly sank to the ground. John was quite the romantic. He no doubt learned the skill from all the poetry that he read. Sherlock turned off the taps and began to remove his clothing. He lifted one leg up and tested the temperature of the water with a dip of his toe. Considering it warmed to his liking, Sherlock slid in with a sigh of relief. It was exactly what he needed to soothe his aching limbs. He ignored the bruises littered all over his body and closed his eyes, lying back.

He stayed in the bath for an hour before he decided that it was time to get out. His fingers and toes had pruned, and Mrs. Hudson had always made it a point when he was a child to say that whenever that happened, he was to get out immediately. He drained the water, dried himself off, and put on his nightwear. He exited the bathroom to find John laid out on the couch, dozing off. He smiled and walked over to his companion, drawing his fingers through short blond locks.

“You needn’t tire yourself waiting for me.”

John yawned and shook his head.

“I do not mind it one ounce, Sherlock.”

“You might not but I do. If you are weary, rest. I am off to do just that.”

John stretched and sat up.

“It is fine, Sherlock. I was lulled by the warmth of the fire and the splendid quiet of the flat. You have roused me from my impending slumber.”

Sherlock crossed his arms and gave John a skeptical glare. When would he ever release himself from his stubbornness? Sherlock had made a move to say something to John about the subject, but was wracked with drowsiness and decided to let it be.

“I am retiring for the night, I shall see you in the morning?”

John smiled and nodded, lying back on the couch. He heard Sherlock open the door and rose from his spot in a last minute decision. Once Sherlock entered his room, John followed right behind him. He closed the door, causing Sherlock to turn around.

“What is it, John?”

John said nothing. If Sherlock had to guess, it would be that he was nervous about something.

“John, is something the matter?”

John looked like he so desperately wanted to say something but he could not find the words. Sherlock took a seat on the edge of the bed and waited patiently for John’s response. It took him nearly five minutes to finally ask.

“Sherlock, would you mind if I joined you?”

Sherlock’s eyes widened.

“Join me? In bed you mean?”

John nodded. Sherlock swallowed and stood up.

“And what do you intend to do if I allow this?”

John’s eyes darted from side-to-side. Sherlock had not meant to put him on the spot but he grew nervous as the thought manifested. John wanted to lay in the bed with him. Yes, he did attempt to get John to do such a thing on the night he appeared in Sherlock’s room but they had come a long way since then. On the other hand he would feel positively dreadful if he sent John away. And did he not crave this as well? Did he not stare at the man in front of him with the hope that maybe he would be able to seek comfort in his embrace?

“Sleep, as is expected.”

Sherlock felt disappointment at the reply. Why would he be disappointed? He wanted John to say that, as much as he wished that John would desire something else.

_You wish for things you cannot have. You know nothing about intimacy, so why should you want it?_

Without a word, Sherlock walked over to the right side of the bed, pulled back the covers and slid in. John looked discouraged when he saw Sherlock settle in and turned to exit the room when he heard, “Why are you leaving?”

“You do not wish me to lay with you so I shall take my leave.”

“When did I ever say such a thing? I’ve settled down on this side for a reason, my dear John.”

John’s face perked up at the invitation. He immediately walked back over to the vacant side of the bed and settled himself in. He sighed as the blanket wrapped around his body, unused to the warmth because he usually slept much after Sherlock, leaving him without the knowledge of spare blankets.  

This brought Sherlock immense pleasure to see while also reminding him to set out extra blankets for John. He yawned and settled further into the bed until Sherlock felt arms snaking around his waist. He did not want to move, he could not risk John’s arms leaving their current position. He even found himself moving in closer towards John, not stopping until he felt the soft skin of John’s chest pressed against his cheek.

John pressed a kiss on the top of Sherlock’s curls, and also to the crest of his cheekbone. Sherlock smiled to himself at the warmth that John exuded. He had always wondered what it felt like to be held like this. To have someone be so intimate with him, and by choice, it made Sherlock tear up at the thought.

“Good night, John.”

It was a moment before John responded with a soft, “Good night, Sherlock.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and managed to push all the doubts away until he was lulled to sleep by John’s breathing and the quiet night that they were sharing together.

_The man at the counter smiled at Sherlock as he purchased his new suit at the behest of his brother._

__

_“I think this color suits you.”_

__

_Sherlock said nothing at first, his brother within earshot._

__

_“Thank you.”_

__

_The man simply handed Sherlock the box and, after a moment of silence, the stranger spoke again._

__

_“You have lovely eyes. Do they change in color?”_

__

_Sherlock blushed at the unexpected compliment but nodded meekly. He had to be wary of his brother’s gaze._

__

_“Are you this kind to other customers as well or am I special?”_

__

_The man laughed and shrugged._

__

_“You have an air about you.”_

__

_“An air of riches, you mean. My brother has the awful habit to buy the most expensive clothing available.”_

__

_“You are a humorous one.”_

__

_Sherlock understood what was happening. The man was attempting to sweet-talk him. He commended his bravery. To be in such an open area and speak this way…_

__

_“You are a brave fellow to try to swoon me in public.”_

__

_“The public cannot hear, nothing to fear.”_

__

_“Sherlock, honestly how long does it take to purchase a suit? We’ve places to be!”_

__

_Sherlock scowled._

__

_“You fear nothing, whereas I fear the wrath of my brother.”_

__

_“Best make haste then.”_

__

_Sherlock flashed a brief smile at him and scurried over to Mycroft. Once they left the store, Mycroft said, “Had I been an officer, I would have you in cuffs.”_

__

_“It was nothing, brother. He was merely being polite.”_

__

_Mycroft scoffed._

__

_“As if anybody would show you any kindness willingly.”_

__

_With that cutting remark, he walked ahead of Sherlock, leaving his little brother behind._

John’s arm tightened their hold around him and the small gesture brought him security and the very rare feeling of love. He was a fool to let this continue, but he could not bear to think of himself without it.

**  
  
  
**

The next day, Sherlock was sitting in the living area awaiting John’s emergence from the room. They were to take a walk today, at John’s behest. Sherlock took care to wear his top hat during their outing so that no one would be able to see the marks on his face as easily. Sherlock opened his watch.

“You mustn’t dally, John! If we are to go on this walk, we must do so now!”

With that, John exited the room donned in the outfit that Sherlock had been dying to see him wear. He looked ravishing. The brown brought out the golden hue in his hair and the blue in his eyes. He was simply stunning and incredibly handsome in the suit. Sherlock grinned and rose from the couch.  All that needed to be done was the tie, the jacket, and the hat. Sherlock finished his ensemble with the tie and he buttoned up John’s jacket before they left the flat together. Baker Street was always crowded this time of day. An hour when everyone was working or heading toward their places of employment. Everyone except John and Sherlock, that was.

“Cold, isn’t it?”

John nodded. Sherlock took note of the slight shiver in John’s frame.

“Is it always so bitter?”

Sherlock nodded.

“It will be bearable come spring, but for now we must endure the frosty chill of winter.”

“I regret leaving the fire in the flat.”

To that, Sherlock laughed. Surely John knew how hilarious he was. They continued their walk down the street, until they were stopped by a man clad in black. The stranger smiled at the sight of Sherlock, which confused the man and set John into a defensive stance. The last time Sherlock was stopped, it did not end well, but this time John was here to defend him.

“Sherlock? Sherlock my boy!”

The Irish accent. The faint grey in the man’s beard. That smile. Sherlock was sent back to all those weeks ago, back in that awful, cold, wet church with that man sitting beside him. Thomas Banville. Sherlock could not return the happiness that Thomas was showing in being reunited with him. He had only brought sadness and pain, things that Sherlock had tried to leave back at the manor.

“Mr. Banville.” Sherlock uttered the name with a melancholic tone.

“Where’ve you gone off to? Barely a word before you disappeared into the night.”

“You must forgive me, I’ve...I was not myself after the funeral.”

“Sherlock, who might this be?” John asked.

“Pardon, Thomas, John. John, Thomas.”

Thomas held out his hand with a genial smile on his face.

“Pleasure to meet you sir…”

“Watson!” Sherlock blurted out. He cursed himself for not giving John a last name all those weeks ago. Thomas did not mind Sherlock’s interruption, and John graciously accepted the man’s hand. The two gave a firm handshake.

“Mr. Watson.”

“Mr. Banville.”

Sherlock could not stand the awkward air that enveloped the three, he had to get away.

“What brings you to Baker Street, Thomas?”

Thomas’ brows furrowed and his mood changed drastically.

“I have returned to England to visit a friend of mine. Whilst walking down the street I was pickpocketed by a street urchin of all things!”

“You’re headed to the station, no doubt.”

“Yes.”

It was then that John took Sherlock’s hand to gently remind him that they needed to depart.

“We must be off, Sherlock.”

Thomas’ eyes lingered upon John’s hand on Sherlock’s. Sherlock nodded.

“Yes, yes. We will be taking our leave, if you do not mind.”

Thomas’ eyes flickered back up to Sherlock’s, his smile returning to his face.

“Of course, I’ve to be off to the station as well to report this theft.”

The station was only a few feet away from them, yet Sherlock did not want to remain a moment longer.

“Good day, Mr. Banville.”

“Same to you as well, Sherlock,” Thomas looked at John and smirked. “Mr. Watson.”

John did not respond, he only glared at the man as they walked away, his hand resting on the small of Sherlock’s back.


	11. The Visit

Thomas watched as the two walked away, only moving after they were out of his field of vision. He walked into the station, which was busy to say the least, coppers running to and fro, doing their jobs. He scanned the area to find an officer that was not buried in paperwork of some kind or bringing in one of the various vagrants of London. His eyes landed on a man of silver hair, seated behind a desk. He was not only an officer, but one of higher-ranking. Thomas approached the man reading the inscription on the nameplate. He cleared his throat and spoke, “Inspector Lestrade?”

 

Said person jumped at the mention of his name. His eyes met Thomas’ with bewilderment. Thomas plastered a polite smile on his face and took his seat in the vacant chair in front of the desk. Lestrade seemed wary of Thomas, but decided to question him professionally and accordingly. Setting the papers aside, the Inspector folded his hands and patiently waited for Thomas to state his business.

 

“I must report a stolen wallet. Just off the corner of this street I was robbed by a lowly street urchin, who made off with my wallet, as well as the assets kept inside. I must make you aware that I have lost quite the amount!”

 

Lestrade did not look the least bit interested in hearing of this man’s monetary loss, but one look at the man told him that the issue would not be so easily swept aside. He quirked a brow for him for continue.

 

“Over £50!”

 

“I am terribly sorry to hear that, Mr…”

 

“Thomas. Thomas Banville.”

 

“Mr. Banville. You need only fill this report out and I shall do my best to recover your stolen funds.” Lestrade had hoped that Thomas did not hear the feigned note of his voice. It was not as if he was completely indifferent to the man’s plight, but he was quite sure that the victim would be able to regain the lost amount much faster than it would take Lestrade to find it. London had hundreds of children who pickpocketed the noble daily, but he could sympathize with them. He was sure the culprit used the money to buy themself food or feed their family.

 

Thomas sat back in the chair and smiled. He was satisfied with the answer, believing Gregory when he said that he would try his best. There were few policemen that would help him, the reason being that the English were not quite fond of the Irish. He was sure that his social status and wealth helped, so when people talked to him, they did not hear the accent, but saw how powerful he was. The only Englishman he met whom he set aside his hate for was Mycroft Holmes, someone he respected immensely.

 

He reached over and began to fill out the paper that was in front of him. It mainly asked for the description of the stolen item, as well as a few questions regarding the time, place, and date of the theft. He finished quickly and rose to leave the building. As he neared the exit, he heard his name being called from the row of cells. He turned his head only to find none other than Anderson and Sally sitting behind the bars looking as miserable as ever. Anderson’s clothes were soiled, and although Thomas was not in close proximity with the two, the familiar sour scent of vomit invaded his nostrils.

 

“Anderson? How did you find yourself here?”

 

“Inspector Gregory was not so lenient with punishment this time ‘round.”

 

“How so?”

 

That was when Sally walked over to the bars, her long, thin fingers wrapping around the dark metal bars.

 

“We saw this bloke few months ago who looked a bit suspicious if you ask me. Messing about in the graveyard, looked like he had something with him. I told Anderson, but we didn’t bother much with him. Come yesterday we see him strolling about as brazen as he pleases, so Anderson and the lads gather ‘round him and knock his head in. We were thrown in here for the night.”

 

Thomas frowned. He made acquaintances with Sally and Anderson five years ago because his friend told him that they were useful for gathering information, even if they were a bit sloppy in manners. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

 

“You attacked a man, you are lucky to have been jailed for the night.”

 

Anderson grunted and pressed his face to the bars, Thomas could smell the rancid odor of the vomit that was in the cell. He had been intoxicated yesterday, that was clear. Anderson smiled and then grasped the bars of the cell door as if he were to be thrust into oblivion at any given moment. What Sally saw in this man, Thomas would never know.

 

“You’re not getting it! The man’s a freak, gets off on the sight of corpses! He’s a sick bloke who deserved the thrashing me and my mates gave him. If you ask me I think the Inspector should commend us for ridding the world of one more freak.”

 

Thomas took a step back, as the stench of the hungover man’s breath overpowered his sense of smell.

 

“What proof have you that he was doing such things?”

 

The couple grew silent. Thomas shook his head.

 

“Have you a description of the victim?”

 

Sally nodded.

 

“Looked about six feet? Blue eyes, cheekbones to the heavens, good lord. Rather pretty. Well, before we got to him.”

 

Thomas’ eyes widened. Cheekbones, eye color - Sally’s description was brief but she managed to tell him enough to bring a person instantly to mind. Sherlock did appear to be sporting a few bruises on his face. Was he the one they so viciously attacked?

 

“Do you have the name of the man?”

 

“Weren’t much time for talking, Thom.”

 

Thomas rolled his eyes. It was Sherlock, without a doubt. He had always been odd, and with the marks on his face, it would not be surprising if he ended up in such an unfortunate accident.

 

“The victim you attacked, what happened to him?”

 

Anderson’s eyes lit with fury as he recounted the moments after the assault. Curse that blond man, he thought.

 

“We were attacked by another, short bugger he was, strong too. Threw us all off the man and broke my mate’s arm in the process.”

 

“How did he look?”

 

“You a cop?” Anderson joked, “Fair-haired, pretty much all I remember.”

 

It had to have been John. He did seem to be on edge when Thomas approached the two. Seeing as how this happened the day before, John would have every reason to be cautious of any stranger that Sherlock came across. When did Sherlock ever gain the friendship of another man? No, more than friendship, no man touches their friend the way John touched Sherlock. He shook his head, surely he had only imagined it. Sherlock did not care for men, Sherlock was not a...he was not a homosexual. Oh, how disappointed Mycroft would be.

 

“That man, his name is Sherlock Holmes.”

 

Sally’s eyes widened. “You mean like that man you worked with?”

 

Thomas nodded. “As you might have guessed, he is Mycroft’s younger brother. His only brother, I might add.”

 

“Shite,” The two breathed collectively. Anderson clutched the bars tighter. They’d heard about Mycroft Holmes. He was not a forgiving man, especially to those that harmed his little brother.

 

“Thomas, you’ll help us, yeah? Your friend can get us out of here and you’ll never see us again. We’ll leave, packed and ready before nightfall o-or he’ll kill us!”

 

Thomas shook his head and pressed a finger to his mouth in an attempt to shush the hysterical man.

 

“Be calm. Mycroft shall not be harming anyone.”

 

“Whatever do you mean?”

 

“One who has died cannot harm a soul now can they?”

 

The two nearly fainted. “Died?”

 

Thomas smiled sadly. “He has passed on months ago now. You are in no immediate danger, I assure you. I am off to meet my friend now, I shall inquire about your release and if it is granted, do whatever you please.”

 

It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. They nodded fervently and watched as Thomas exited the building.

 

-

 

Sherlock and John returned from their outing just after noon. John had taken position behind him, assisting in pulling off Sherlock’s coat. While the walk had gone splendidly, Sherlock was not able to hide the little expressions of pain that movement caused. Apparently John had remained as observant as ever. Sherlock, however, seemed distracted. Since they ran into Thomas he had spoken little to John and resigned himself to near silence upon their return to the flat. John would not press him, he would wait until Sherlock was ready to speak.

 

There was a knock at the door, prompting Sherlock to answer it. It was a boy not more than twenty years of age with a bag of letters and items that needed to be delivered. Sherlock could scarcely believe it - there was a letter in the post for him. He thanked the young man and closed the door behind him. John had taken a seat upon the chesterfield and Sherlock took a seat beside him. He opened the letter without a word and read it. John waited patiently for Sherlock to relay to him what the letter said. Sherlock set the paper down next to him and stared blankly towards the fireplace.

 

“That was my caretaker, Mrs. Hudson. She has written to me. My brother’s belongings have been retrieved from one of his many offices.”

 

“Brother?”  John did not know Sherlock had a sibling.

 

“My older brother, my only sibling in fact.”

 

“Why would his belongings be retrieved?”

 

Sherlock turned to face him with soft eyes. His demeanor was unusually quiet.

 

“Months before we met, my brother he...he passed away.”

 

Sherlock visibly crumpled at the words. All these months and he still could not even associate death with his brother. He would get over it in time, he told himself, and he would learn to make it hurt less with each passing day. Soon, his brother would live on in fond memories, but for now, all his memory brought was pain and sadness. He rose from the couch and began to walk in the direction of his room. Their room. Sherlock was not sure.

 

“I must go back to the manor, John. Come with me or stay, I do not mind. Either way, this is something of the highest importance.”

 

“You’ll find no complaint from me. I should like to join you in your trip to this manor.”

 

Sherlock’s lips formed the ghost of a smile. John, always so ready and willing, always prepared to travel to the very ends of the Earth with him, even if he did not know where he would be taken.

 

“We leave immediately. You’ll pardon me for doing this, I hope.”

 

John only smiled and kissed Sherlock lightly on the lips. An action that still sent tendrils of turmoil and battling emotions through Sherlock.

 

“A thousand pardons, Sherlock.”

 

With that, Sherlock left the room to throw on his coat again.

 

They made it to the Holmes’ Manor quickly, Sherlock had not let the driver’s efficiency go unrewarded, providing a generous tip in gratitude. Mrs. Hudson was already standing outside of the grand doors, desperately awaiting Sherlock’s presence, the mere sight of his face. He prepared himself for the hugs and the kisses that she was no doubt ready to thrust upon him. To his surprise (and dismay) she pressed kisses to his cheeks and put on the warmest and widest smile of which she could muster.

 

“Sherlock, you’ve the look of a skeleton! Have you been skipping your meals again?”

 

Before Sherlock could even formulate an answer, John approached them with a grin, their luggage in hand. Mrs. Hudson’s face showed slight astonishment but she greeted John in the same manner she did Sherlock. When they entered the manor, John’s jaw nearly came undone as he took in the size of the place. It was so different from the flat that they lived in that it was as if they had entered a world entirely different to the one they knew - or the one John knew. Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson were in the midst of conversation while John gaped at everything within his sight.

 

“I’ve laid everything of note in his study.”

 

“What of his bedroom? Has it been disturbed?”

 

She scoffed. “I should not be so careless as to allow any of the girls to enter the room. I have personally seen to it that the dust does not collect.”

 

Sherlock seemed relieved at her answer. To return to the manor, only to find that his brother’s belongings had been meddled with would have been distressing indeed. Sherlock had missed the way Mrs. Hudson stared at him.

 

“You’ve spent too long away, my dear boy. Not a sign to give me the reassurance that you are alright. You are all I have left. I’ve lost your father, your precious mother, and now your brother. I worry about you, you understand?”

 

Sherlock could not help but feel guilt at the woman’s words. He had told her to not disturb him, but there had been times where he would wish that she were at Baker Street with him, singing lullabies from childhood, cooking him bountiful meals whether he cared to eat or not. Just as she had naught but him, she was all he had left of his family as well.  He turned to see John handing their baggage to Jeanette.

 

“Run along upstairs, and I shall fetch you and your friend tea and sandwiches.”

 

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you.”

 

She smiled cheekily and squeezed his arm. “Hush, do not thank me. I am merely your caretaker.”

 

The soft sound of Sherlock’s chuckle caught John’s attention. The way Sherlock seemed so calm, so relaxed around this woman, John decided that maybe he could come to feel the same way about her as well. He followed Sherlock up the stairs, leaving Mrs. Hudson behind with Sherlock’s coat draped over her arms.

 

Mycroft’s study was as tidy as a human could possibly manage. Sherlock remembered the way Mycroft fussed over the tiniest speck of dust on his immaculate shelf. He always worked. Sherlock had to spend hours at a time coercing him to take a break, have a cup of tea, or even read the next chapter of his newest book. Mycroft had never listened to him, and seldom had intervals where he was inactive. He wondered if Mycroft ever slept in his bed or merely used it for his reading sessions. He laughed to himself, what a stubborn man. John walked over to the box that held things precious to Mycroft. Sherlock had already knew in his heart that he would not throw a single item away. With slow and careful steps, he made his way over to the desk. Everything remained as Mycroft had placed it and Sherlock was scared that even the slightest movement of anything on it would incur the wrath of Mycroft’s ghost. The first thing that caught his eye was a sheet of music. _Bach Chaconne in D Minor_. Mycroft gifted him with the sheet when Sherlock first began to play the violin. As he expected, he mastered the instrument just under a year. It was on his twelfth birthday that Mycroft bought it for him.

 

_“I am merely a beginner, how am to play this?”_

 

_“Nonsense, Sherlock, I have the utmost faith in you.”_

 

_Taking the violin in his hands, Mycroft smiled and closed his eyes as Sherlock played the music rather effortlessly._

 

He could barely contain his smile as the memory flooded his mind. Mycroft had always believed in him, even when he did not believe in himself. He set the sheet down and fished through the box. He pulled out a collar, clearly belonging to a pet that they never had. Mycroft intended to take in the stray dog that Sherlock loved so dearly. The lame Irish Setter that was always found in the yard, playing with him. Sherlock named the dog Redbeard, and no matter how many times Sherlock was punished by Mrs. Hudson for playing with the canine, Sherlock had never listened. Then Mycroft presented the collar to him, black and decorated with small diamonds, but Redbeard had died. Put down by a man who suspected him of being rabid. Sherlock had witnessed the whole ordeal. He cried and he kicked and he shouted for Redbeard to wake up, for the evil man to be put in prison, to be put down himself.

 

_“The dog would not have survived much longer, brother mine. His leg was damaged long before he found us. I intended to take him as a pet, clean him, and provide him with the necessary treatment that was due such an animal. You should take care not to weep over this, every living thing dies, Sherlock, love cannot sustain us forever.”_

 

He hated Mycroft for saying that to him. Redbeard was the first and only friend he had. He brought him happiness, joy. To say Sherlock fell into a depression was an understatement. For months he confined himself to his room, sobbing and despising the world for taking Redbeard away from him. Mycroft offered the boy the collar but Sherlock could not stand the sight of the beautiful collar meant for a dog that no longer lived. He had no clue that Mycroft had kept it for all these years. The sentimental fool.

 

It was at that moment that Sherlock saw it sticking out of the box as clear as day. The syringe that he had used during those years where he could not fathom the loneliness, or the static in his head. He wanted silence, any form of love, and he found those in cocaine. That day Mycroft had found him in his room. He had been out of country for a few days so Sherlock thought it easier to get his high at home. Too many times he woke in those shabby houses that belonged to London’s underworld; feeling grimy and dizzy and hopelessly sad. It was in the midst of his intoxication that Mycroft barged into the room, gaze worried only to go wide at the sight of his little brother slumped over, barely able to form a sentence. Sherlock waited, he readied himself for his brother’s rage, but where he expected physical blows he only found himself being wrapped in his brother’s arms with his head upon Mycroft’s chest. Mycroft cradled Sherlock as if he were a newborn too fragile for anyone else’s hold except his own. Mycroft sniffled and pressed his nose into greasy, tangled, curls. Sherlock had not meant to make his brother cry, Mycroft was always so strong and invincible, stoic. It was there that both brothers cried; one at the feeling of guilt, and the other because of self-pity. He forced out apologies through sloppy tears, he wanted Mycroft to understand that he did it because he did not want to hurt anymore.

 

_“There will always be pain, it shall always hurt, but we shall hurt together.”_

 

Sherlock was ever the fool. He did it again. He broke Mycroft’s heart twice-over. It was Mycroft who saved him from the streets when he nearly overdosed in some dilapidated remnant of a house. There were no tears this time, no pity or remorse. There was only his brother’s cold gaze, and even colder demeanor. He instructed Mrs. Hudson to watch over Sherlock and nothing more. To Sherlock, no time had ever been so lonely than the months where his brother refused to speak to him. They did not hurt together, as he had promised him, but he knew he’d broken the promise first.

 

He shook his head and returned to the present. The box was half-empty and John stood by his side watching. There was the broken magnifying glass that Sherlock thought Mycroft had gotten rid of, the book that Sherlock soaked in the pond at the park, and other miscellaneous items that Mycroft was too stubborn to toss.

 

“I was present during your births, you know.”

 

Sherlock and John turned to find Mrs. Hudson standing behind them with the tray of tea and sandwiches in her hands. She walked over to the desk and set the tray down gently. John moved closer to Sherlock who looked seconds away from breaking down into tears. She wiped her hands on her apron and formed a smile that held more sadness than happiness. Her eyes gaze seemed worn and beaten down from years of hard work, as well as loss.

 

“Mycroft was breech; came out legs first. He wailed as strongly as any newborn and was a bit on the heavy side, never quite lost that weight. Your mother could scarcely contain her excitement. She wanted nothing more than to hold him, to smell him, to see her newborn.”

 

She passed a cup of tea to John, who graciously took it and flashed her a brief smile of gratitude.

 

“You were unexpected since your parents only planned on having the one. Your coming into the world was not as laborious as your brother’s. You were so tiny, so...fragile. Your mum worried that she would break you.” She paused and chuckled under her breath. “But how she loved you, Sherlock. She would refuse to leave you alone, even only for a moment. She moved your crib to her room because the thought of being away from her precious babe brought her great distress.”

 

She offered Sherlock a cup; he declined. She tucked her chin and took a slow, careful sip of the hot liquid. John had already helped himself to a sandwich. Sherlock could not blame him, the man must have been ravenous.

 

“Mycroft was seven at the time, but lord, he had the mind of a grown man. In those rare moments that she allowed him to handle you, I’ve never seen him be so gentle. I daresay that, in his own way, he loved you more than your mother did.”

 

Sherlock nodded, his mother had doted on him whenever she had the chance. Even upon her deathbed she had found ways to spoil him. Mrs. Hudson pulled out an envelope from her apron pocket and handed it to Sherlock. It had his name written on it in Mycroft’s elegant scrawl. Sherlock’s eyes flickered up at Mrs. Hudson’s. She only smiled and said, “A letter I was entrusted to give to you. It was his only request to me in his last days.”

 

Sherlock could not speak, if he tried all that would come out was bursts of tears and incoherent words. She understood, she did not want him to say a word. She slipped the letter in his coat pocket and rested a hand on his cheek.

 

“Go to him, Sherlock.”

 

He nodded and motioned for John to follow him out of the room. He had not seen Mycroft in ages, what would he possibly say?

  


They were seated in front of the tombstone for what felt like an eternity. Sherlock had not said a word and John feared that anything he said would only worsen the situation. It had pained him to see Sherlock hurt this way, and Sherlock had wished that John would not have to see him in his current state.

 

“How did he die?”

 

Sherlock closed his eyes and exhaled. The air was cold and harsh, but he would not move, he would freeze to death if need be. He knew that John had questions, any person in his position would. Sherlock’s eyes opened and he began to tell John just how his brother had come to rest six feet below their very feet.

 

“His diet was always poor, as well as his lifestyle. He worked himself to the point of exhaustion and would only recuperate enough to resume his duties. His way of life might have worked in his youth, but Mycroft grew older and his body was no longer as strong as it once was. He developed a cough, nothing serious, we had simply pegged it as a cold. His cough never subsided and it was upon my insistence that he sought medical attention at once. The doctor, the moronic quack, prescribed him tonics and other medicines in the hopes that they would cure his seasonal illness. He only grew worse, his cough became harsh and his body grew weaker. It was not until he coughed blood that he returned to the doctor. He had Consumption. It buggered his lungs, making it harder for him to breathe. He was bedridden until the time of his death, and due to the nature of the illness, I was not allowed to see him.”

 

“The doctor did not permit you access?”

 

Sherlock looked distant, as if he were back in that time watching his brother slowly wither to nothing.

 

“The Consumption was in his lungs, thus making it a highly contagious disease. The doctor had bid me caution, but had not forbade my presence. It was Mycroft who did not allow me to see him. He claimed that it was for my sake as well as the family’s in the event we both found our demise in sickness. I became so angry, John, so bitter, so...dejected. Why would he do such a thing to me? Why would he cast me away like that? I hated him, positively detested him, I hated him because he would let me suffer to save face. He died the day before Christmas. I am told his last words were, ‘Tell him I am sorry.’”

 

Sherlock struggled to keep his composure. His body shook with anger and sadness as he remembered those awful days spent listening to Mycroft’s gasps for breath and rough coughing. He looked nothing like himself when Sherlock saw his body before the funeral. He was thin and pale, and so unlike the man he knew before.

 

“It was not until his death that I realized my hate for him was because of his very act of dying. It was then that I realized that I was alone, and there is nothing more terrifying than being lonely.”

 

Sherlock was caught off guard by the sob that left his body, which gave way to more, reducing him to a bawling mess. He wanted John to turn away, to not look at him while he was showing such weakness. He cried even more when he felt John’s arms embrace him.

 

“How I yearn for his presence, John! I long for the days where I can hear his condescending voice or wake to find him already dining on breakfast! My only brother, my only sibling, left to rot underneath the earth!”

 

He spent hours bemoaning the loss of his brother. He was not sure when they ever made the trip but he found himself back in the manor with John’s arms still wrapped tightly around him, and said person fast asleep in Sherlock’s bed. The moon shone through the large window, illuminating everything in its presence. His eyes were sore from the amount of tears he had shed at the graveyard and he felt as if he could not possibly support the weight his body possessed. How did John get him back here? And how was it that he could recollect none of it?

 

The letter. He saw his coat draped over the back of the chair at the desk.. He had to read it, despite the late hour. John would not be disturbed by his absence in the bed, the rest of the house was asleep. He had to know what Mycroft wrote to him in those fleeting moments of his existence. How very like Mycroft, to continue to puzzle Sherlock even after death. He rose from the bed with stealthy movements, bending down to place a kiss to John’s smooth forehead, and then walked over to the desk, taking the letter from the coat pocket. It had been forever since he had sat in this chair. He lit a candle using the box of matches he kept in his drawer. Once he was able to see, he fished the letter out of his pocket, and with a deep breath, opened it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and Kudos are welcome! 
> 
> Thank you all for your patience! We are trying as hard as we can to update the chapters within a reasonable time. 
> 
> And last but not least, a big thank you to my lovely beta and co-writer!


	12. An Interested Party

_Sherlock,_

_I’ve no doubt in my mind that you are angry with me. Do not think, little brother, that I do not hear your pleas to see me once more. I cannot permit you access to see me and you know this. This illness that I have, it is highly contagious and I could not bear it if you were to contract it as well. To be the reason behind your premature demise, Sherlock, would haunt me even in death. You are but a child to me, brother dear, you should not have to suffer due to sentiment._

 

_It burns, Sherlock. For each breath I take, it draws me to near insanity as the pain courses through my body. There are times where I pray for death, an end to the pain, I crave relief. However, whenever I think that I’ve come to the day where I am finally granted that wish, I hear your voice. It is soft, and desperate. “Let me see my brother”, “Why must you torment me?”, “This is all I ask of you”. You begged the nurse to permit you access to me. Why would you want to see me in this state, Sherlock? To gaze upon the husk that once was your brother. Surely you would crumple at my ghastly appearance, fortunately, I have spared you from such horror._

 

_My hand aches as I write this sentence. How fragile a body becomes when diseased. I can hear your frantic pacing just outside the door. You know I do not like it when you fret, you are too young to worry over such things. Death comes to us all and we mustn’t be shocked when it finally arrives. I am nearing middle age and the years I had left, regardless of this illness, were few in number. You however, have decades to do as your heart desires._

 

_I know that you are frightened of being alone, brother dear, and the thought of being in the world without so much as a friend is unbearable. Though solitary you have been, I have the utmost faith that one day you shall find a companion that will guard you and care for you just I have. You are a rare sort in this bleak world and I want nothing but the best for you even though I have done poorly to show it at times. You know that I have never meant any of those cruel words, yes? I only wish that you would see that. All the times I have reduced you to tears, the period where you and I had not spoken a word to each other - You are all that I have left after mother and father passed. Please forgive me for all the hurt that I have caused you. You have already been burdened with enough and I have done little to help._

 

_There are choices that I have made, Sherlock, that I deeply regret. Of what those choices are...I am afraid that I am not at liberty to say. I only pray that my mistakes shall not affect you in any way._

 

_This was meant to be a letter of brevity, not an outpouring of sentiment ignited by my sudden, imminent, departure from this world. Do not let grief overcome you. Do not fall over yourself in mourning, I implore you. You are to be the head of the household and I need you to be prepared for whatever is to come. You are so much stronger than you think yourself to be my formidable, lonely, brother. How I hate to even write the word. I tell you that sentiment will destroy you, and that you mustn’t let it rule you, but here I lay dreading your approaching loneliness. You have always been this way, and words cannot express how terribly sorry I am. I only wanted to spare you from the harsh realities of this world, yet I became the very thing I sought to protect you from. Mrs. Hudson still lives so please, do talk to her should you feel the need to use again._

_Sherlock, know that although I shall perish fairly soon, I will always guard you from harm. Do not waste your youth lamenting my death. Live life as you see fit, but all I ask of you is to not fall prey to the advances of another man. What a dangerous life you choose for yourself should you continue the way you are. Gross indecency is what you shall be charged with, and death is the consequence. I implore you, Sherlock, find a woman, make her your bride, father children, do anything but lay with a man. I write this because I must impress upon you the importance of this situation._

 

_The nurse urges me to rest so I must halt my letter until later.”_

 

Sherlock set the paper down, tears running down his face. The letter he held in his hands was the last document that Mycroft had ever written. How painful it must have been for him, to rise from his bed in the brutally cold room, and to write down his last wishes, his goodbye for Sherlock all the while dying slowly.

 

“He was unable to finish the letter,” John’s voice was soft behind him, laden with fatigue. Sherlock turned to face him, he did not wipe the tear streaks from his face. He almost wanted to tell John to return to sleep, that he would join him in a minute, but in that moment he wanted nothing more than to feel John’s strong arms wrapped around him and to listen to his soothing whisper assuring that everything would be alright. The candle’s flame shone directly upon Sherlock’s face, making the tears on his face more obvious. Sherlock shook his head in defeat.

 

“It would seem so.”

 

His voice trailed off after the words left his mouth. Mycroft was not able to finish his letter to Sherlock, this, the last thing that would ever be written to him by his brother was incomplete. He could imagine what more Mycroft had wanted to say to him. He had already advised him from being with another man, he told him that he was mean because he loved him, and apologized many times over for not being there for Sherlock when he began his drug usage. He nestled his face into the crook of John’s arm and sighed.

  
“I wonder what he would have concluded such a note with. No doubt it caused him great pain to record his thoughts down on paper, I imagine that he was quite...fragile at the time of writing this letter.”

 

John stroked Sherlock’s curls; Sherlock closed his eyes and attempted to stifle his tears as he felt John’s soft breath on his scalp.

 

“To think, Mrs. Hudson had this in her possession all this time. Why would she think to bequeath the note to me now?”

 

“Perhaps she felt as if you were not ready to read it, love.”

 

Sherlock scoffed. “So she thought to shield it from me forever? This is the last thing that my brother wrote, and to me no less. I am no longer a child, John, I have no need for her constant mothering.”

 

John only smirked and pressed a gentle kiss to Sherlock’s head.

 

“She was only trying to help.”

 

Sherlock moved from John’s embrace to stare up at the man with eyes red-rimmed. He managed to halt his tears, but that was only because he was in the process of shifting moods. He felt betrayed at the moment. She had no right to keep such a personal item from him. It was his brother’s, she should have presented the letter the day of Mycroft’s passing, or even upon Sherlock’s return from Mycroft’s funeral. How long had she waited to give it to him? Why did she not call the flat to inform him of it? He specifically remembered telling her that she was to call if only there was an emergency in the manor. He would have considered this an emergency.

 

“It is rubbish, John, and I am shocked that you would even defend this.”

 

John’s smile did not falter, and how Sherlock hated how calm he could be in situations such as this. True he had never experienced heartbreak, pain, or loss, but he should have understood where Sherlock’s anger was coming from. Mrs. Hudson was very dear to him, but she was wrong in delaying the news of Mycroft’s letter and even John had to see reason. He was supposed to be mad at him, but he could barely resist the urge to rush back into John’s arms and listen to the whispers of comfort. Sherlock wished that he would stop looking at him that way, it made it harder for him to stay upset.

 

“I understand that you are hurting, but that does not give you ample reason to lash out at your caretaker. I have only known her a short while, but in that period I have witnessed the way you allow yourself to be at peace when you are near her, your eyes, they brighten to rival that of the sun whenever she presents you with a cup of tea. You are unguarded in her presence, Sherlock, and you are only ever that way when you are with me.”

 

Sherlock nearly swooned when John took his hands in his own. He commanded Sherlock’s gaze meet his without uttering a word. Sherlock feared that he would never truly be able to stop falling for him no matter how hard he tried. He prayed that no one would enter the room and interrupt this moment.

 

_John you are everything I need and more. Hold me like this in the comfort of our flat, you tempt fate as well as myself by doing this for the public to discover._

 

“Please, see reason. You are an intelligent man and I am sure you understand better than I why she took great pains to conceal this from you. Do you not notice how it hurts you, Sherlock? It pains me to see you tormented so. I do not know your brother, I have not been given the opportunity to, however, I understand the extent to which you miss him. I have not been witness to how you were after his passing but Mrs. Hudson has. Bear her no ill will, she was protecting you, as you say she was, but it was well-meant.”

 

Sherlock scoured his mind to search for a rebuttal, any rebuttal at all would suffice. Upon realizing that he would not be able to find anything, he simply shut his eyes and permitted the tears to flow once more. He did not need vision to see John’s frown. He could feel it, and he was not sure if it was brought on by disgust for Sherlock’s lack of self-control, or pity for the grieving little brother. Sherlock hoped that it was the latter. While he did not approve of anyone pitying him, the thought of John finding his tears, his emotion, his pain disgusting would be too much to bear at the moment. He was granted his answer when he felt John’s pull and then the familiar warmth of his embrace.

 

“Come love, let us retire until morning. You have not had sufficient rest since our arrival at the manor, you are simply weary in both mind and body.”

 

He was right, Sherlock was loathe to admit it but sleep did sound rather an attractive proposition, and the thought of sleeping with John made the proposal even more enticing.  He felt John pull him up and guide him to the bed. This is what he must have done after their visit to Mycroft’s grave. He laid Sherlock down first and then joined him. Sherlock wanted John to stay with him like that forever but they were not in the flat. They risked an intruder entering the room to find them in such a suggestive state. John noticed the apprehensive look on Sherlock’s tear-ridden face. He smiled and said, “Have no fear, Sherlock. I will not fall asleep, I will migrate to the floor after you have drifted to slumber.”

 

Sherlock wanted to thank John, but he could not find the words to speak, and he was sure John would take offense to the statement so he resolved to muster something resembling a smile. Some time passed before Sherlock finally spoke.

 

“Why Mycroft?” He asked. “Out of all the men in the world, why would it rob me of Mycroft?”

 

John only kissed his wet lips and ushered him to the world of sleep. When he awoke in the morning, John was sprawled out on a makeshift bed beside Sherlock’s own. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and stared at his treasured companion with a sad smile. He told John the dangers of being caught in public days ago and John had kissed him in response. He wondered how long John stayed with him until he finally retired himself. Sherlock had rarely seen John sleep before, but from the few times he had witnessed him in the throes of slumber, it had always made Sherlock feel as if he deserved it. He did. He deserved everything for being so unwaveringly attentive and caring.

 

Two knocks on the door followed by Mrs. Hudson’s entrance interrupted Sherlock’s thoughts. She swore a bright smile and closed the door behind her. She looked down at John sleeping on the floor and then back at Sherlock.

 

“He’s right knackered,” She whispered.

 

Sherlock sighed, “It would appear so Mrs. Hudson. I would prefer if he were left to rest. The day was long.”

 

She nodded in understanding and moved to open the door.

 

“I’ve only come to bring you news of breakfast. It awaits you downstairs.”

 

“Duly noted.”

 

With that, she exited the room. Sherlock stretched his aching limbs and then rose from the bed, careful not to disturb John. He was glad that he had not brought his whole wardrobe to Baker Street, while he was sure Mrs. Hudson would not mind him wearing the same outfit from yesterday, he found it scandalous thanks to years of Mycroft’s complaints. He stared at the coat draped over the chair, brilliant, it had little spots of dirt from his visit. He had a mind to leave it to Mrs. Hudson’s care, but once he left this manor he knew that it would be a long while before he would ever return.

 

_Mrs. Hudson deserves better._

 

She knew that he could not remain here, not until he was positive that he would be able to spend one night without reminding himself of Mycroft.

 

_John likes the manor._

 

Maybe it would not be so bad to pay Mrs. Hudson a visit more often. Perhaps once a month? He would have to discuss this further with John, for now, he would have breakfast. He walked over to John and with the utmost care, placed two kisses on his lips and cheek, as well as a stroke of his hair. He paused once John began to stir, and when John opened his eyes, Sherlock mentally berated himself for rousing his companion.

 

“Mmm...Sherlock…” John tried to rub the sleep from his eyes and wake up fully but Sherlock could see how dreadfully tired he was. Why wouldn’t John ever take time for himself?

 

“Hush, please, return to sleep. I apologize for waking you. I shall be downstairs when you are up.”

 

John, too drowsy to respond, simply nuzzled into Sherlock’s had and was asleep again in seconds. Sherlock found the light snores adorable. He rose from his spot and left the room, closing the door with such ease as he exited. When he came down the stairs, he found Mrs. Hudson preparing his plate, as well as heating a kettle on the stove. He took his seat and watched as she fluttered about the kitchen and the dining room, setting Sherlock’s place and checking on the food that was still cooking. It wasn’t until he saw her in action that he realized he had missed her. The way she fussed over his clothes, cooked his food and set his place, how different Baker Street would seem without her. She came from the kitchen and placed the silverware on both sides of his plate. Fried egg, ham, and beans on toast were laid out on the porcelain. It smelled heavenly. Sherlock hoped John would wake up in time to eat Mrs. Hudson’s cooking, knowing he would love it so.

 

“You’ve not enough meat on your bones, Sherlock! I’ve made enough food for John so that you may have extra helpings. I do not like the thought of you skipping your meals.”

 

At the mention of John’s name, Sherlock began to feel rather lonely at the thought of sitting at this grand table alone for breakfast.

 

“I have not been ‘skipping meals’ as you put it. While I have been busy at Baker Street, I have taken the precaution of feeding myself as well, I’ll have you know.”

 

She smirked and shook her head. She waited for Sherlock to take his first bite of the ham before she struck up another conversation.

 

“I’ve been meaning to ask you this, there wasn’t much chance for talk yesterday. What happened to your face?”

 

Sherlock nearly choked on his ham. He had almost forgotten about the bruising on his face, it did not hurt as much anymore but that did not mean that they were gone. How would he tell Mrs. Hudson about this?

 

“Ah, yes, well...it was caused by an error during an experiment. Nothing more.”

 

She raised her brow. Of course she would see right through him, she had known him for his whole life, tended to the wounds caused by the bullies, and she knew the difference between an accident from an experiment and a bruise created by a punch. He did not want to upset her this early in the morning but he knew that she would not leave well-enough alone.

 

“Earlier this week, I was subject to a rather hostile group of miscreants, Mrs. Hudson. They claimed to have seen me visiting Mycroft’s grave on the night of my departure from the manor. They assumed that my presence in the cemetery was due to a...perverse infatuation with corpses. They then proceeded to...attack me...just outside my flat.”

 

Mrs. Hudson gasped and pressed her hand to her mouth. “You poor dear.”

 

“Fortunately, John witnessed the whole altercation and rushed to my aid. An inspector by the name of Lestrade apprehended the aggressors and allowed John and myself to go.”

 

Mrs. Hudson’s eyes appeared glassy and the last thing Sherlock wanted was to make her cry. It was not her fault and he was sure that if she learned the real truth as to why he was in the cemetery that night, she would want to strike him too.

 

“John, thank the heavens for John.” She smiled and Sherlock felt the tension in his body bubble away.

 

“Tell me boy, how have you come to meet John? You have always been alone, how is it that you’ve suddenly found yourself a friend? You were never the social sort, and I doubt Mycroft’s death would alter that.”

 

Sherlock hesitated. What would he say to her? _I stole body parts from corpses and then stitched him together?_ How would he be able to provide a memory of how they met when in reality, Sherlock “birthed” him?

 

“I fear it is not as fanciful as you would prefer, Mrs. Hudson. He was advised by a friend that I was in need of a flatmate and he was as well. I think even you can gather that we were quite satisfied with each other and agreed upon the flatshare.”

 

Mrs. Hudson seemed to take the bait.

 

“Are you two...you are not...involved with this man, are you Sherlock?”

 

He threw the fork down on the plate, making a loud clatter.

 

“And why would you assume such a thing, Mrs. Hudson?”

 

She twiddled her thumbs together, unsure of how to answer this. Sherlock did not need her answer to understand the context behind the inquiry. She was there the night Mycroft struck him, she knew about the boy from the cafe, the way Sherlock fell for his smile. She knew….she knew...she knew…

 

“Mrs. Hudson, I…”

 

“Good morning!” Sherlock looked at the entrance of the kitchen and saw John standing there with a genial grin on his face. Sherlock let out a sigh of relief, what would he even tell Mrs. Hudson? True, it is not as if he had done anything inherently intimate with John. They had only kissed once and Sherlock made sure to stop it there. He shared a bed with John only a few times, that was not so terrible, all they did was sleep. He was not a bad person, he wasn’t.

 

“John! And how was your rest?” Mrs. Hudson was ever the brilliant actress.

 

“I’ve not slept like that for sometime, I am feeling refreshed.”

 

She smiled, but Sherlock saw the wariness in her eyes. She suspected John of being like Sherlock, of being...being a homosexual. It wasn’t his fault, John only knew him, he did not have the chance to meet others. She was wrong about John, she was wrong about Sherlock.

 

“Please, have your seat, I shall be out in a moment with your plate.”

 

Naturally, John took his seat next to Sherlock. Sherlock wondered if she saw the way John squeezed his thigh underneath the table. They could not stay here, they could never come back. When he was sure that Mrs. Hudson was out of earshot, he said, “After breakfast, we shall depart from this place and return to Baker Street. We have overstayed our welcome.”

 

John wanted to ask him why, he saw the look in his eyes, but he could never bring himself to and only nodded. Mrs. Hudson returned with his food and wore her facade well.

 

\---

 

“I tell you, they were locked up.” Thomas leant forward. The restaurant they were in was relatively quiet and Thomas would hate to be the one to disturb the peace.

 

“And how did they find themselves in such a predicament?”

 

“The fools say they assaulted a man.”

 

“I would be ashamed if they were to be jailed for any other reason, other than being belligerent arseholes that is.”

 

Thomas smirked and took another sip of his whiskey. He would need a refill soon.

 

“They claim they attacked the poor sod under the assumption that he was a lover of corpses.”

 

“‘Poor sod’? I take it we know him?”

 

Thomas nodded. He needed another drink.

 

“It is more like you know of him. He is Mycroft Holmes’ little brother, Sherlock Holmes.”

 

“Mycroft Holmes? Am I to understand that he is dead?”

 

Thomas froze for a moment.

 

“Aye.”

 

Thomas’ friend smiled at the answer.

 

“However, I am worried for the younger Holmes. I have had the fortune of running into the man after the incident. With him was a man, Mr. Watson if I remember correctly.”

 

“And how does this distress you?”

 

Thomas signaled for another drink, he nearly told them to bring the bottle while he was at it.

 

“I suspect that they are homosexuals, degenerates to society. There was a moment during our conversation when the bloke laid his hands on Sherlock in places that should never meet his touch and to my dismay, Sherlock did not shy away from such unlawful conduct. Surely Mycroft must be rolling in his grave to be witness to such...depravity.”

 

Thomas put his hands on his face, the mere mention of the memory brought on the headache he experienced. His friend placed a hand on his shoulder.

 

“I understand that this may be a troubling time for you, but please, I would like to know more about this brother, Sherlock Holmes.”

 

Thomas exhaled and removed his hands from his face. He took a tired sip from his drink and nodded.

 

“What do you wish to know, Moriarty?”

 

\---

 

John had just left the dining room, he finished after Sherlock, but went ahead to get dressed. It was just Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock left. She already cleaned up the plates and the cups, exited the kitchen, and was wiping her hands on her apron.

 

“Well, I’ve other duties to tend to. Such is the life of a caretaker!”

 

She made her way to the entrance but Sherlock grabbed her arm before she could leave. Her brow rose at the contact.

 

“Please Mrs. Hudson, do not think any less of me. I could not bear it if you did.”

 

Mrs. Hudson only smiled, but there was something almost sad behind it. She patted his hand and said, “My dear boy…”

 

If she had anything else to say, she decided to keep it to herself. She detached his hand and left the room.

  



	13. Kidnapped

Sherlock and John left the manor two hours after they had breakfast. John called for a coach, and the servants, mainly Jeanette, packed the men’s belongings. When they were alerted to the coachman’s arrival, John said his goodbyes to Mrs. Hudson as well as his thanks for her hospitality. It was Sherlock who lingered in the back, watching as she smiled at him and gave him a hug. When it came his turn to leave, he only stared at her, waiting for a response. She did not smile, she merely hugged him and stepped aside so that he could leave. Every instinct in his body told him to keep walking and to not look back but of course he would be a fool and turn around. There she stood, eyes watery and wearing a quivering smile. He walked back over to her and wanted to say something, anything. He wanted to hear her reassuring words, he wanted her to bawl over his impending absence yet again, but instead she placed a hand on his cheek and he shuddered. Oh how cold it felt to him. He sought the warmth that she always offered with her gentle touch. He felt his eyes tearing just the same.

 

“Mrs. Hudson…”

 

“Hush now, boy. You’ve nothing to fear, I only ask that you act carefully.”

 

She was just like him, Sherlock thought. She was just like Mycroft. _Be careful, do not do this to yourself, I say this because I care._ They were all the same. They did not understand him, for all they said to him when he was younger, they did not understand a single thing about him.

 

“And remember that you’ve family here that miss you terribly. Do try to keep in contact.”  

 

_How uncomfortable our talks would be._

 

“Yes, yes, I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

 

She seemed satisfied with that answer and removed her hand from his face. It took him a while to move, he did not want to say goodbye to her because he knew that once he left the manor, their relationship would most probably never be the same again. She still cared for him, surely. She must or she would not have remained in the manor for so long if she did not love him anymore.

 

_You fool, you complete and utter fool. She has only remained due to Mycroft’s orders. It was never about love. Who could ever love you?_

 

“You better be off now, Sherlock. I am sure John’s patience goes only so far.”

 

 

John loved him, and Mrs. Hudson loved him. Mycroft would never allow her to remain if he knew she no longer felt love toward him. He cared for his little brother immensely, he would want him to be surrounded by people who felt the same. So then why? Why did Sherlock feel as if something has been severed in their connection? Irreparably.

 

_This is the end of an era, Sherlock._

 

“Yes, Mrs. Hudson, I’ll set off immediately.”

 

He turned to face the carriage again, but after a moment of stillness, faced Mrs. Hudson once more.

 

“Mrs. Hudson...I am sorry.” He hung his head and hoped that she heard him clearly, he did not mean to linger on the last word. He felt her soft fingers lift his face so that their eyes could meet. She pressed the lightest of kisses to his cheek and whispered in response, “I know, Sherlock...I know…”

 

He hurried to the coach while trying his hardest not to run. He knew that returning would be a mistake, he knew that something would go awry. He had known that the visit would end on a sour note because he always missed something. He always got one thing wrong. He did not even look back once the carriage set off. He did notice, in his peripheral, that Mrs. Hudson did not even so much as wave as they left.

 

They had been in the carriage for what felt like an eternity to Sherlock. There was no sign of Baker Street yet so he waited in agony for them reach the building. John, on the other hand, spent his time staring out of the window. There was not much to see besides the occasional house, or a vendor selling a trinket or tonic - anything to earn a meal. He did not speak a word to Sherlock and only did so whenever Sherlock seemed to be sulking or melancholic. The coachman hit a bump, which caused Sherlock to slide over to John, making him intrude in John’s space. The other man only laughed, Sherlock blushed, uttered a brief, “Pardon me,” and returned to his corner of the carriage. He tried not to react to John slowly moving toward him and placing a gloved hand on top of his.

 

“It is quite alright, I did not mind one bit.”

 

“However, I did.”

 

Sherlock paused. That came out much harsher than he intended it to be. John did not take offense to Sherlock’s terse response but did squeeze his hand.

 

“Is something the matter? You’ve been rather dejected since our departure from the manor. Did you wish to stay longer?”

 

Sherlock gave a bitter chuckle and shook his head.

 

“No, no John that is not it at all.”

 

“Then what has you so upset?”

 

Sherlock turned to face the window, he could see John’s curious face in the reflection.

 

“I fear that I have lost Mrs. Hudson’s respect.”

 

“Rubbish.”

 

Sherlock wanted to ignore the hurt he felt when he saw the corners of John’s mouth twinge into a smile. John did not believe him. Why would he? All John witnessed was the caretaker in her, he did not have the great fortune of coming to know her over three decades. He was not able to notice the difference in her affections, but Sherlock knew, and it broke his heart to realize that now he truly had nothing left for him at the manor.

 

John saw the way Sherlock’s face shriveled into the most sorrowful of expressions he had seen him wear. His words were true, Mrs. Hudson had become cold to him. John could only offer an embrace, unsure how else to comfort Sherlock. The man was grateful for even the smallest of touches that John could give him. It meant more to him than he could say to have John by his side.

 

“I am sorry to hear that, Sherlock. Truly. I was not aware that your relationship with her was weakened.”

 

Sherlock scoffed. “You never really are, are you?” He mumbled. God, he had done it again. He was being short with John and unrightly so. John did not seem affected in the slightest, but Sherlock knew that he was only being polite. He would lose John too, at this rate.

 

“You will get on fine without her, Sherlock. You have me, and I am forever grateful to have you.”

 

“I imagine that it is just the two of us against the world now, yes?”

 

John smirked. He truly believed that. If he did, then that meant that Sherlock would have to as well.

 

“Do you not feel the same?”

 

“Do I have a choice in the matter?”

 

That hurt him. Sherlock saw the way he shrank in the reflection. Why must he be so cruel to everyone he loves?

 

_You deserve to be alone._

 

Yes he did.

 

With that, Sherlock felt John’s hand detach from his own. No, no, not John too. He could not lose him too.

 

“I shall leave you to your thoughts, it is clear that you are in no mood to hold conversation with me.”

 

Sherlock closed his eyes. He did want to talk to John but rather the opposite. He wanted to have John tell him of his observations while they traveled. He wanted the carriage to fill with the sound of John’s voice and only his. Sherlock knew he could be nasty sometimes, his mouth getting the better of him and spewing hurtful things to anyone that tried to help him. This was why he was always left alone, and why he always turned to the syringe filled with the one substance that could make the days bearable. How many times did he tell himself that he would give the world one more day to make him feel as if he belonged? How many times did the world show him that it was no home for him? All those hours wasted atop the manor, just waiting, biding his time. _I’ll jump once Mycroft leaves, the moment his coach leaves view_. Who would miss him? He had wondered. The skull that Mycroft obtained for him? The maids that came and went? Who in their right mind would spend days at a time mourning Sherlock Holmes?

 

_Mycroft._

 

A dead man now and there was no grief among the dead. Perhaps, if he were alive still, the elder brother would no doubt hole himself in his study and blame himself for his younger sibling’s tragic demise. How the staff at the manor would try to lure him out, perhaps with the promise of pastries, or a reminder that he still had things to do, but none of them would succeed in their attempts. Would he waste away? Would he become the empty shell of himself, same as he did without the illness? Sherlock concluded that he would surely die of heartbreak.

 

_Mrs. Hudson._

 

He could still see the way she stared at him. There was a light that dimmed in her eyes whenever she looked at Sherlock after their talk at breakfast. He had always thought that she was different, that she paid no mind to the more personal aspects of his life. Why did he think that of her? Mycroft told him to find a woman that would put up with him and last long enough to bear him children. Mrs. Hudson merely ignored that side of him and chose only to see the little boy she spent years caring for. Which one of them were worse? Sherlock could not help but wonder how she felt when she heard the argument between the two. Was she heart-broken? Did she want to defend him, but feared Mycroft’s response? No, the second choice was highly improbable. She stood there, in the shadows, and listened to every harmful word that Mycroft said to him, and she agreed, the woman that had always shielded him from Mycroft’s wrath, agreed. She had always felt the same way, but simply chose to push those thoughts aside and let Sherlock live in the illusion that he still had one person left at the manor who loved him.

 

Sherlock’s conclusion: She would be greatly affected by his passing, but she would learn to manage the pain, and she would move on.

 

_John._

 

He truly was the only one that would care if Sherlock died. He would never be able to move on with the pain. He could try to find a solution to his grief but he would always find his way back to that cold, dark, lonely living area played with thoughts about what once was. He could never put John through such turmoil, his love for him surpassing any desire to cause him pain. He wanted John to live a life of pure bliss and eternal happiness but he knew better. He knew that even the most content of people had to struggle. Sherlock could hardly stand to think of John’s reaction to hearing the news of Sherlock’s death. Maybe he would be caught in an unfortunate incident of a carriage that lost control, a freak accident, a fire, or the way he had planned during his adolescent years, suicide. It hurt to picture that, the way John’s knees would buckle, his eyes would water, obstructing his view of the letter stating the cause of death. He would try to be strong in the eyes of the postman, but behind closed doors he would cry and cry and spend every waking moment wishing that it was all an endless nightmare, and that he would awake to find his arms wrapped around the very person he ached for.

 

_Oh John, what must I do to make you see? I am not the one for you. I love you, same as any man would love his wife, but the extent of my love reaches far beyond what you might think. My love for you is so selfless that I would do anything to see you happy._

 

Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and pressed the cold leather to his mouth. He saw the way John’s cheeks tinged from the sudden contact.

 

“Do forgive me, John. As you have so helpfully pointed out, I am beside myself at the moment. Please do not take these words to heart, it shall never be my intention to cause you any hurt, physical or emotional.”

 

John’s smile could have warmed the carriage if it were any stronger.

 

“I know, Sherlock, I know.”

 

_...In another life, perhaps, I shall let you go._

 

If Sherlock were to be granted one wish, he would wish that they could remain that way for forever and a day.

 

\---

 

_Jeanette watched from the window of Sherlock’s old room as they departed. She waved, although she realized that there was little chance of either of them looking up at her. She was just the maid, and from what she heard from the handful of servants that lived there longer than she had, she was only another youthful face that would not last long. She hated them, she hated every soul in the manor, especially the way they whispered behind her back. They spoke of her as if she were a character created for their entertainment. She knew she would never hold the same respect that they had and they took great pains to remind her of it everyday._

 

_Then he came._

 

_James Moriarty was his name, he happened upon her once while she was out running errands for the ever so busy caretaker. He told her that he could help her escape her miserable life, that all the things they whispered could finally become true. She would be the youth that rose above them all._

 

_She did not realize how bad she wanted to prove them wrong, or how sad her life had become until he uttered those words. He could help, he told her that that was what he did. He helped._

 

_The only thing she had to do?_

 

_“Mr. Moriarty, Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson have taken their leave of the manor.”_

 

_“Very good, Jeanette.”_

 

_It was as simple as that._

 

\---

 

Sherlock and John arrived at the flat during the early afternoon. John lugged their bags back into the upstairs while Sherlock took care of paying the coachman. When they opened the door, immediately John dropped the luggage and laughed. Sherlock took over John’s task and moved them over to the side so that neither of them would trip over the large bags.

 

“We are home, Sherlock!”

 

“We have not been gone from it long, yet you declare that statement as if we have not been back in years.”

 

John’s smile remained, Sherlock knew that he loved it when they took playful jabs at one another.

 

“Do forgive me then for announcing my excitement for being back in the one place I can truly call my home!”

 

Sherlock only chuckled and walked over to the coat rack so that he could remove his jacket. John joined him at the rack and grabbed the jacket from behind to help Sherlock take it off.

 

“John you needn’t rush over, I am only removing my coat. You are free to do the same.”

 

John slid the sleeve off of Sherlock’s arm and then draped it over the hook.

 

“It is not a matter of obligation, Sherlock. I enjoy helping you, even more so since you have not had a good time of it.”

 

“John I have already apologized…”

 

John held up a finger to Sherlock’s mouth.

 

“I understand that, but you have not yet returned to your former self.”

 

“I assure you, my former self is much worse. Should you bear witness to it, I am sure you would pack your bags the very same day.”

 

John removed his finger and stared at Sherlock.

 

“Why must you put yourself down?”

 

Sherlock could not formulate a response in time.

 

“If I held such distaste toward you I would have left long ago. I have already told you my reason for staying, so why is that you try so hard to force my eviction?”

 

Sherlock’s eyes trailed down.

 

“I…”

 

He was not ready to stare into those beautiful eyes. John had given him no warning when he lifted his face. He felt John’s lips on his own, and it was heavenly. He melted into the kiss that John graced him with and found that he had been craving it. John pulled away from Sherlock and pushed him onto the couch. Before he could voice his objections, John was already down to his waistcoat and on top of Sherlock. He peppered kisses all over Sherlock’s long, slender neck. Sherlock tried to push him away. This was wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong.

 

_But, God, I do not wish it to end._

 

Sherlock wanted it to continue. They were in their flat, everything was fine, was it not?

 

He allowed John to remove his waistcoat and unbutton his shirt. He loved John so much. It was not until he felt John’s hand linger too close to his groin that he pushed the man away. There, upon John’s face, was the look of rejection and confusion. Why did Sherlock let him do that? Why didn’t he stop it sooner? Why? Why? Why?

 

“John, I am terribly sorry. I cannot bring myself to do this!”

 

“Why not?” John was angry with him now.

 

Sherlock fumbled to button up his shirt. He could feel their eyes on him, looking on in disgust - Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, and all the snot-nosed brats from his childhood.

 

“I have never done such a thing, I-I-I would not know where to even begin!”

 

“Do you think that I have mastered such an intimate act, Sherlock? I am just as new to this as you.”

 

John shot up from the couch and grabbed Sherlock’s carefully sculpted face in his hands. He kissed him again and again, and Sherlock resisted his urges each time he did.

 

“John, please! Believe me when I tell you that there is nothing I desire more than this.”

 

“So then why do you feel so reluctant?”

 

“...I must go...I need...no, I require some time to myself. I promise you, John, that I will explain everything to you once I return. For now, do not bear me any ill will.”

 

John did not respond, only watched with a solemn face as Sherlock dressed himself again and left the flat.

 

\---

 

John resolved to writing soon after Sherlock’s departure. He was nearly done with his recordings once he heard knocking at the door. Immediately John closed the journal and made his way towards it, hoping that it was Sherlock so that they might finally clear the air between them.

 

“Who is there?” He asked before he swung open the door and found a man staring back at him with two younger men standing on both sides.

 

“Boys, please escort Mr. Watson to the carriage. By force or without, it matters little to me, only take care to not kill him.”

 

John shut the door and tried to find somewhere to retreat. His mind was racing too quick to act rationally. He merely raced around the flat attempting to find a hiding spot ideal for him. The men entered the flat and he had no choice but to fight them off. Where was Sherlock? Why did he leave? He managed to make one of them bleed, their nose gushing with crimson liquid. Clearly they were not prepared for his strength.

 

One of them grabbed him from behind and he tried to shake them off but only succeeded in breaking some of the china in the kitchen. The other man, the one with the injured nose, came at him with a blunt object. The first strike did little else other than disorienting him.

 

“Sherlock!”

 

The second strike caused blood to trickle down his face.

 

“SHERLOCK!”

 

“Oh honestly, finish him off!”

 

The last strike silenced his cries.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos keep us going guys, keep on being awesome!


	14. A New Face

Sherlock walked down the street. He scowled at the cold weather and pulled his coat tighter around his neck. He had hurt John. To him, this was even worse than causing John physical harm. He had broken his heart. How could he be so stupid? How could John not feel hurt from the way he recoiled from his touch? Did John not know? The only reason why Sherlock leapt from his seat in that manner was because he liked the way John’s hand slowly approached his groin and it terrified him to the point where he had to flee. Why did he torment John so? Why did he have to be so...why did he have to be the person he was?

 

_You’re an awful human being. You are a coward in the guise of a genius. You are no genius._

 

Sherlock shut his eyes so that he might shut those thoughts out. John had every reason to hate him, he had every right to desire to leave the flat. What a hypocrite Sherlock was. Had he been in John’s place, to be confined to one area for an extended period of time, he would have thought the setting akin to a prison and done everything in his power to escape. Of course John loved him so dearly that he did not have the chance to fully experience the world, save for the trip to the manor and the attack in front of their flat. John was perfect in every aspect. He would be loved by all, desired by every noble woman, married or not.

 

_He has eyes only for you._

 

And he was a fool to be so devoted to Sherlock. He could barely work up the nerve to even kiss him, let alone share a bed with him in the privacy of their home. Mycroft had never explained such things to him as a child. He did not understand why people fell in love, why they wanted to marry and start families. Sherlock did not understand what love was, and what it meant to be in love. Mycroft himself never married, hardly the scandal since most of the nobles knew of his surly demeanor and the fact that he was tasked with ensuring the wellbeing of Britain. Unlike himself, Mycroft had reasons for remaining unmarried. Sherlock had only one reason; he was simply not loved enough to be considered for marriage. Suppose he did marry, what would his wife think of him? Would she think him insane? Would she spend every waking moment reminding him that she did not love him, that he was not normal? Would she even want to be around him long enough for a child to be conceived? The answer was no, Sherlock would never find a soul in the world that loved him for him.

 

_John does._

 

He had no right to fall so deeply in love with John. He knew that nothing good would come of it, yet he pursued the relationship anyway. And now look, he was almost certain that things would never be the same between them again - it would become too awkward, to tense. They would merely sit together for meals and perhaps, occasionally, they would mutter the polite “good morning” and “goodnight”. Why did he leave? He wanted nothing more for John to touch him the way he had and to be kissed the way John kissed him. He wanted to be loved the way John loved him.

 

It was wrong, Sherlock knew this. His lifestyle was wrong in the eyes of society. It was incredibly selfish to bring John down with him, maybe he would enjoy the company of a woman just as much as he did Sherlock, perhaps he did not mind what gender his partner was. John was the one puzzle, the only mystery that Sherlock could not seem to solve, and it maddened him and made him love John even more. Sherlock groaned, this sentiment, it was ruining him, tearing his mind to pieces. He enjoyed everything about John. He enjoyed his smell, his very essence, the sight of John was enough to calm his hectic mind. He loved him, God how he loved him. He stopped in the middle of the street, his shoulder colliding with the busy Englishmen and women that scurried up and down the cobblestone.

 

Did he deserve John? After all that he had put John through, did he actually think that John would still be there, ready to accept him with open arms? He had hurt him, had played with his heart, how could one be so easily forgiven after committing such a grave crime? John was kind, yes, but even the kindest people had their limits. What would he even say? He was awful at apologizing, even if he truly meant it. He would have to spend the whole walk home searching for the right words and piecing together something that would earn John’s forgiveness. If he was not able to continue his relationship with John, he could at least learn to live with him if they maintained a friendship.

 

He prepared himself, he was going to make a complete and utter fool out of himself and in front of John out of all people. He was not far from the flat, if he had to make an estimation of time, he would be approximately twenty minutes away from Baker Street. He sighed, he was not very attentive when he was absorbed in his thoughts. He turned around and began walking in the direction from which he came.

 

He unlocked the door to the building and walked up the stairs, hoping that John was in a better mood than when he left him. He felt his palms sweating as he neared his flat. He moved to knock on the door when he saw that it was already left ajar. His brows furrowed together as he stepped into the eerily silent flat. It was odd that the door was left open, but he was not in the best of moods when he stormed out of the flat, he was distraught and distracted, and John would be too upset to notice such a small thing. If John was still in a black mood, then he would probably be holed up in his room, ignoring Sherlock. Sherlock was still wary, but he cleared his throat and started to spew words of apology.

 

“John! If you are choosing to ignore me, then I have no right to stop you, but know that I am terribly sorry for my poor reaction to our...whatever you deem it.”

 

Sherlock stepped into the kitchen and saw that some of the plates were broken.

 

“What in God’s name?”

 

He walked over to the broken china and looked around.

 

“John? John are you alright?”

 

He assumed that John had flown into a fit of rage, although there was something telling him that that was not the case. He moved to the kitchen table, observing that the chair was knocked over and there was a book of some sort sprawled on the floor. Sherlock picked it up and discovered that it was a journal kept by none other than John.

 

\-------

 

_March 16th_

 

_Within the pages of this empty book I have found, I will record my memories so that I do not forget them. So many things are fascinating and new to me. I have realised that upon the first time I learn something, it is grand and amazing, but as I get used to them they lose those qualities. I forget them, I suppose. So in this book I wish to inscribe those first moments of joy so that I may recall them later for I have much to feel joy about._

 

_I remember little of my very first night here aside from the wet in the beginning and the strangest instinct to come to this flat to find Sherlock. If I remember correctly he did think me an intruder. I could not speak a word or read at that time. Since then Sherlock has read countless stories to me, many of them fairytales. The stories are wonderful and amazing. I do not know what the people in the books look like though because the only person I have seen closely is Sherlock and those walking outside past our home. However I am content. None could be as beautiful as Sherlock._

 

_Something about the fire draws me in. After that first night when Sherlock showed me that it could burn I have sat here contemplating how something dangerous can look so alluring. It blazes bright and spreads warmth through the room yet I cannot get too close. At times Sherlock gives this very same feeling. He is very patient, very smart, and has taught me much. I am sometimes overcome with the desire to touch him but the first time I did so he pulled away like I had burnt him. I am nothing like this fire and yet he responded as if I was. I can understand him no more than I can understand the flames before me right now. Something unexplainable draws me closer though. I know to one I am at risk of danger and to the other I am a danger._

 

_I stare at his door in longing that he will join me in contemplation again but alas it stays shut and he slumbers on. Sometimes I hear him make sounds of agony. They are quiet, being so far away but I long to see what is the matter and if I can help. For that reason I do not sleep for long. It seems even the quietest of his sounds can rouse me and I spend the rest of the hours until he emerges aching to go and see what is wrong._

 

_I can see what a burden I am to him as well. By watching him some evenings it is obvious that he is greatly taxed but still devotes time to teaching me new things. I wish to help him and alleviate myself of him but he is hard pressed to allow it. Only today was I able to clean the dishes._

 

_Sherlock is privy to get lost in his thoughts. Sometimes he looks very far away, wrinkles appearing on his forehead that I wish to chase away with my fingers. After seeing today how he hates my touch I will refrain from making such contact. I do not wish to cause him more pain._

 

_I have no one but him in this world. He is my family, my friend, and all that I know. He has been nothing but kind to me and constantly teaches me new things. I do not know what life is like beyond the walls of my home but as long as I am able to be with Sherlock I am content._

 ---

_March 20th_

 

_I write while Sherlock is in the bath and I must note down that I am unabashedly in love with Sherlock. From the books, the fairy tales, there is no clear definition of love, but I feel that I can understand it with my soul. Sherlock is comfort, safety, home, and I wish to never be apart._

 

_Sherlock had set out to buy me a new wardrobe. The clothing fit well and I feel like a proper gentleman in them but I cannot help but think of what the excursion brought upon him. I never expected for Sherlock to be assaulted right in front of our home. Luckily since I have been reading his medical texts I was able to use my basic knowledge to treat his wounds._

 

_I was able to learn something while treating his injuries. Sherlock does not see himself worthy of my companionship. It is the oddest way of thinking. He is such an intelligent individual yet could he not see how devoted I am? I look at him as if he were the sun that I orbit around but it appears as though he was oblivious. He implored me to leave his company in favour of a society in which I can fit, but I will never leave his side so long as I can stay here. I am content to spend my days revolving around him._

 

_We shared our first kiss. The first ones are the ones in the fairy tales that are of such import. I fancy ours was even more spectacular. I did not think a simple touch of lips could feel so grand but I was wrong. Sherlock’s lips against mine felt right and I reckon the sensation will never leave me. I would like to kiss him for days on end if that was possible._

 

_He bathes now but I have hopes that I can share the room with him tonight. I yearn to soothe his cries, to be by his side so that he does not endure his pain alone. I also wish to be close to him and feel his body against mine. I wish to protect this man who believes no one accepts him for who he is. I do not know if he will let me into his room but I will risk it. There is nothing left to lose._

  
\---

_March 21st_

 

_I am utterly confused. I was under the impression that Sherlock loved me but I am not sure._

 

_From some of the books I’ve read, the natural progression of a romantic relationship after kissing is sexual intimacy. It is taboo to speak of such acts but I look at Sherlock, kiss him, and my body yearns to go in that direction. My attempt to try today failed utterly._

 

_Sherlock’s excuse was that he is not experienced but neither am I, only driven to try. I am not upset that he chose not to engage with me, I am merely confused with his reluctance. If he were hesitant in only this area I would not be so doubtful of his love for me but there are more._

 

_At the manor I believe I learned the most important reason behind Sherlock’s melancholic mood at times. He seems to have been very close to his dearest brother and the loss of him struck a large blow. Sherlock was alone in the world afterward and I am not sure how many days he spent without companionship until I arrived. While Sherlock read Mycroft’s letter and grieved, I was present and attentive. I held him in bed because I could sense he wanted the embrace and I too wished to soothe him that way. At the same time, his unease was apparent. I could sense that he worried about our positions so I created a makeshift bed after he fell asleep and slept there so as to not give the impression we were sleeping together._

 

_I do not see how that can be so wrong? If he does love me, we are men who share the same feelings and should be free to be with one another, should we not? I cannot give reason for his hesitations except that his feelings for me are not what I believed. Perhaps he does not love me but only craves my companionship? I am not sure. Even now, after my advances, he has fled._

 

_I wish to sort this out with him and I hope I have not lost his affections forever, no matter what they be. Regardless of anything he is still the most important person to me, whom I will treasure and do my very best to protect. I have no one else and, even with my very limited experiences with the outside world, I do not want anyone else._

 

\-----

Sherlock’s mouth hung open. Clearly this journal was very personal, considering the fact that Sherlock was not even aware of its existence. Had he always felt this way? Did he truly believe that Sherlock did not love him?

 

“Oh John…why must you punish yourself for my wrongdoings?”

 

He had done the one thing that he sought to prevent. All the time he spent running so that he did not hurt John anymore than he already had. He broke John’s heart, he was just too polite to tell Sherlock that he had done it. Sherlock closed the journal and placed it down on the table. He pressed his hands to his face. Why was he such a failure? Why did Mycroft waste his youth caring for his useless brother?

 

He rose from his spot on the floor and scrutinized every clue carefully. There was the open door, the broken dishes, the chair that was knocked over, the journal, and a new one - There was blood on the floor. It was not a great amount of blood, but enough to know that John, and quite possibly the assailant were injured. From what he witnessed during the skirmish, John possessed a considerable amount of strength. It was very possible that he was able to inflict bodily harm before finally being stopped. John was kidnapped and it was without a doubt Sherlock’s fault. Who was it? Was it one of his abusers come to finish the job? Maybe it was one of the children he upset from years past come to seek revenge? Why did the captor take John and not him? Why was he not taken while he walked about London? He was not aware of his surroundings, he would not even know what was coming for him. Had he not left, John would have been spared. London was crawling with vicious criminals and murderers, he prayed that John was not the next victim.

 

His mind raced as he ran up and down the flat, tirelessly searching for a way to locate John, he even called for his dearest companion in the hopes that maybe he was able to defend himself from his attacker and was now recovering somewhere in the flat. Of course that was not the case. It wasn’t until Sherlock made his way to the fireplace that he found a card on the mantelpiece.

 

“What is this?”

 

He picked it up and read the writing.

 

“Mr. Holmes- you are to arrive at this address.”

 

It was the address to a bathhouse. He did not waste a moment and tucked the card inside of his coat and set off.

 

The ride to the location seemed longer than it actually was. All he could think of was John. Was he alright? What if they had killed him? How would he react to the sight of John’s corpse sprawled against the wet tiles of the bathhouse? Sherlock wished he had never imagined such grisly things. The carriage stopped, signalling their arrival. He rushed out of the coach and into the bathhouse. It was the one that Mycroft used to frequent when he needed to relax. He wanted Sherlock to join him on one occasion, but Sherlock turned him down and said that he did not find the thought of being trapped in a room with sweaty men his idea of a good time. Mycroft scoffed and muttered, “How would you know?” underneath his breath before he left.

 

“John!”

 

His head whipped back and forth as he searched for any signs of John. He thought he heard his name being returned, but dismissed the phantom call. He ran into the room to the right and found nothing but emptiness. He ran to the room on the left and that’s where he found him. He was tied up to a chair in the middle of the damp room, unconscious and bleeding. In a moment’s notice, Sherlock was in front of John’s chair,  freeing him from his bonds.

 

“John, John! Can you hear me?”

 

He was met with incoherent mumblings. He placed a hand on John’s cheek and could not help but look up at the wound on John’s head. He knew that head wounds always bleed more than any other injury, but still, John should never bleed. He kissed John on the cheek, and then the other.

 

“John, it is imperative that you respond to me. Can you hear me?”

 

After a moment of silence, he heard John’s soft whispers of “Sherlock”. Sherlock let out a laugh of relief.

 

“Don’t worry, I’ll get you out of this yet.”

 

The rope around John’s hands fell to the floor and Sherlock cringed at the red lines left on John’s perfect wrists. He picked one of the limp hands up and kissed the irritated skin.

 

“Oh John, my John...who has done this to you?”

 

He could hear John say something, but once again it was nothing more than mumbling mixed in with unintelligible words. He was concussed, if this was not the case then the person, or people, that had done this to him had come back a second time after the initial kidnapping to silence him once more. He grabbed John’s cheeks in his hands and lifted his face so that he could see John’s eyes but they were closed.

 

“John, wake up! I implore you!”

 

He smacked his right cheek, prompting a jolt from John’s body. It worked, but it did not bring Sherlock joy to inflict more pain upon him. He smacked the other cheek, and then the right one again until John’s head shot up as if waking from a nightmare. His chest rose and fell with each sharp inhale of breath and his eyes looked bewildered until they landed on Sherlock’s smiling face. Letting out a sigh of relief he planted a crushing kiss to John’s lips.

 

“You live!”

 

John swallowed hard and attempted to return the smile.

 

“Oh Sherlock, what a wonderful sight you are.”

 

Even in this dire situation, John managed to reduce Sherlock to a blushing mess. He moved to untie John’s legs, and swiftly caught John before he was able to sink to the floor. Throwing one arm over his shoulder, Sherlock was able to support John.

 

“I’ve got you John, do not fret.”

 

John opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by another.

 

“Congratulations Mr. Holmes, you’ve managed to retrieve your friend as well. I would apologize for his ghastly state, but you must understand, he did not come willingly and even attacked my men.”

 

Sherlock spun around to find a man standing in the entrance of the room. He was dressed in a gray suit, hair as black as the night, and eyes that were cold and reminded Sherlock of those of a  spider’s. His tone had an Irish lilt.

 

“Who are you?” Sherlock snarled.

 

The stranger flashed a smile that made Sherlock shiver.

 

“You mean to tell me that you have not heard of me?”

 

“I would not have asked if I knew you now would I?”

 

“The name is Jim Moriarty, hello.”

 

Sherlock propped John up so that his knees would not scrape against the tiles. After a pregnant pause, Sherlock finally spoke again.

 

“If you will excuse us, we will take our leave.”

 

Sherlock started to trudge over to the entrance, hoping that Moriarty would move out of the way, but he only stood and watched Sherlock’s futile attempts at leaving.

 

“May I ask where you are going? There is much to discuss!”

 

Before Sherlock could reply, one of Moriarty’s henchmen struck him from behind, leaving him dazed and confused on the slippery floor of the room. He was going to lose consciousness soon, could barely keep his eyes open. All he saw before everything darkened was John being dragged back to the chair and Moriarty’s polished black shoes directly in front of his face.

 

“Do tie Mr. Holmes up as well, we must do our best to make him feel comfortable.”

 

Everything went black.

 


	15. Threats and Revelations

_“...I’m sure that you can make the knots tighter…”_

 

_“...Fools! ...What use are you to me?”_

 

Sherlock could have sworn he heard something resembling a gunshot shortly after that statement. If only he could will himself to open his eyes. Whatever Moriarty’s henchman attacked him with served its purpose. He was tied up, going by the way his wrists burned from the coarse ropes. John. Where was he? They did not harm him, did they? This Moriarty, whoever he was, had better not have laid a finger on his John. That gunshot he heard- No. No, that bullet had killed one of the henchman. Not John. John was alright, they spared him, no harm had come to him…

 

“Sherlock!”

 

It was his voice. Sherlock let out a sigh of relief. He was correct and John was still alive. Moriarty would have had hell to pay if John’s life had been taken. He tried to move around but his legs were also tied to the chair. Surely John was in the same predicament as well.

 

“John!”

 

John’s smile widened at the sound of Sherlock’s voice. He was across from him and Sherlock was able to see everything on John - All the bruises, the dried blood, the rope burns. Sherlock grimaced at the wounds John sported.

 

“They have not seriously harmed you, have they John?”

 

He shook his head.

 

“Nothing of consequence, have they hurt you?”

 

Sherlock’s head began to pound at the mention of the blow to the head he had received.

 

“I have merely sustained a wound to the head, nothing more.”

 

“You would have no wound had I not been such a fool. I was distracted, I was not able to stop them, Sherlock-”

 

Sherlock shook his head. John had no right to berate himself for not stopping the kidnapping before it happened. He moved around again, in hopes that it would loosen the rope tied around his ankles. Whoever had tied the knots did their job well. Sherlock’s eyes darted back over to John’s.

 

“John, are you able to move?”

 

John furrowed his brows at Sherlock’s odd question.

 

“I am bound as well, Sherlock.”

 

“Can you move? If so, try to move your leg.”

 

John did as he said but it was no use. They were both stuck in the uncomfortable chairs. Sherlock closed his eyes and dropped his head. How were they to get out of this? He whipped around and searched for anything that might cut the rope. Sharp wood, A shard of glass, anything with a sharp edge would free him from this dilemma. Before he could even find anything, he heard voices nearing them, no, just one voice. John was directly in front of the entrance, and Sherlock had to be sure that no harm would come to him.

 

“It’ll be alright, John. I’ll get you out of this yet.”

 

John nodded. At least he believed him.

 

At that moment, Moriarty himself walked into the room, eyes black and piercing, mouth curved into a smirk that made Sherlock cringe. What was he going to do to them? Why did he do this to them in the first place?

 

“Awake, are we?”

 

Neither of them responded.

 

“I must say, I was rather nervous when my man struck you. There was blood and,” He stopped to put on a disgusted expression,” it was an absolute mess.”

 

“Is that why you shot him?” Sherlock asked.

 

Moriarty nodded, and his smirk then turned into a smile. He shrugged.

 

“Does it even matter? He’s dead now and we’ve things to discuss.”

 

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.

 

“I don’t believe I know you.”

 

“No, you wouldn’t. Thankfully, I know you. I’m well acquainted with the Holmes family.”

 

“How?”

 

“Well...you and your meddlesome brother, obviously.”

 

With slow, menacing strides, Moriarty walked over to John’s chair and Sherlock tensed as the pale hand hovered above John’s shoulder before finally retreating. He was walking over to him now, Sherlock steeled himself as Moriarty bent down to meet his eyes.

 

“You remember what happened to that young boy, Powers, all those years ago?”

 

Sherlock’s eyes widened.

 

“Carlton Powers?” The words were nearly a whisper.

 

Moriarty tapped the tip of Sherlock’s nose with approval and walked away.

 

“Precisely!”

 

He spun to face John.

 

“You see, years ago, a boy was murdered. As you might have guessed, this child went by the name of Carlton Powers. He...drowned, and many suspected it was an accident. A clumsy child who veered too close to the lake’s edge…”

 

“Surely Scotland Yard did not believe such lies.”

 

“They did not! How have you gotten to be such a clever lad?”

 

Moriarty turned to Sherlock.

 

“Tell our dear friend John how Scotland Yard came to the truth.”

 

“You talk as if we were wrong in turning you in.”

 

Moriarty’s face hardened at Sherlock’s response and immediately his hand flew to John’s wounded shoulder and pressed into the open cut, causing John to hiss. Sherlock’s jaw dropped and instantly he said, “I am the one who reported the murder!”

 

Moriarty’s hand fell from John’s shoulder. Sherlock sunk into the chair, his eyes traveled away from John’s pain-filled ones.

 

“When we heard word of Powers’ death, I was certain that it was more than a mere death. I informed Mycroft of my conclusion, and though it took time for him to see reason, we traveled to Scotland Yard and swayed their minds.”

 

John looked up and saw Moriarty’s mouth twisted into a sick grin.

 

“Quite on the mark! You see, with Sherlock’s incessant urging of obtaining more evidence, the police found that I was the last person to have seen the idiot before his death and found the soiled jacket in my room. They would have never thought to search me had you left well enough alone, Mr. Holmes!”

 

“There’s more, I take it?” Sherlock inquired sarcastically.

 

“I’m glad that my struggle is of little importance to you, Sherlock. It was at your brother’s insistence that I was a troubled boy and therefore must be sent to an asylum!”

 

“You murdered an innocent child, Moriarty. I hardly doubt that a normal person would do such a thing.”

 

“And tell me, what do you know of normal? You know nothing! He harassed me,” He spoke with a harshness in his tone that set both John and Sherlock on edge, “The taunts, the beatings, he was a nasty boy who deserved his fate. He laughed at me for being Irish, so I stopped his laughing.”

 

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, to tell Moriarty how sick he was. But he was right, wasn’t he? Sherlock knew nothing of being normal. Wasn’t he just as bitter as Moriarty was about his childhood too? He was laughed at, he was attacked, and he was bullied because the other children could not tolerate someone as freakish as him.

 

_You did not kill someone that is where you two differ._

 

He did not kill another human being, this was true. What of John though? He was not truly alive, nor human. Composed of body parts from the deceased, what did that make him? He was not a monster, not an abomination. He did not have to kill to get John, but people had to die in order for him to have John. His brother, and the poor unfortunate souls who now rested below the earth with missing limbs and organs. What a cruel, selfish man he was.

 

“I would have been left to rot in that hell, had not a man by the name of Thomas Banville come to rescue me. Says that he was a friend of my father’s.”

 

“Your father did not attempt to save you?”

 

“What of him? He was an incompetent fool, my mother as well. I was glad to hear of their deaths from the cholera epidemic.”

 

John shrank back into his chair.

 

“It was Banville that told me of his relationship to Mycroft and yourself, and it is Banville that helped me in capturing you.”

 

Sherlock’s anger flared at the utterance of the statement. To think, his brother’s only friend betrayed him in this manner. He inhaled so that Moriarty would not be able to deduce his real emotion.

 

“It was Banville that fed you the truth of our lives? Who instructed you to target us after all the harm we’ve caused you?”

 

Moriarty laughed and shook his head.

 

“Sherlock, dear Sherlock...don’t be daft, you and I both know that he does not have the intelligence ample enough to carry out such criminal acts. He told me of his recent meeting with you, when you were attacked by those buffoons Sally and Anderson just outside your home. He also spoke of your relationship with our dear John here.”

 

Sherlock’s face paled, and he saw the way John gulped at the statement.

 

_Oh John, my John. Do not think you are to blame for this. We could not have known that our lives would take such a turn, that such a small event from my childhood would create such a moment._

 

“Now John, tell me, did you really grab the small of Sherlock’s back? This is what Banville has relayed to me.”

 

John’s eyes flickered over to Sherlock’s. He wanted Sherlock’s approval, he wanted to be able to agree with the statement, or was he to pleading? Did he want for Sherlock to divert Moriarty’s attention? The lack of silence confirmed the man’s suspicions.

 

“Really? I had assumed Thomas was lying. The man does have such idle fantasies at times. This, however, this changes everything!”

 

Moriarty let out another laugh and clapped both hands on John’s shoulders.

 

“Sherlock Holmes, a homosexual! How would that sound to a judge, or even a lowly cop? They would sentence you to hard labor, if the death penalty does not reach their minds first.”

 

He shook his head and clicked his tongue at them.

 

“Did Mycroft know? Of your...preferences?”

 

With resignation, Sherlock nodded.

 

“He knew.”

 

John frowned at how sad Sherlock sounded to admit such a thing. Sherlock could not stand to look John in the eyes. He thought he was the reason for Sherlock’s unhappiness, as if Sherlock had not harbored such self-deprecation for years, as if Mycroft did not contribute to the self-hatred. John was innocent in this, his only crime was being created. John’s love for him surpassed any other love that he knew, perhaps that was because this was the only love that Sherlock knew. John was everything he could ask for and more. He treated Sherlock with such kindness, which he was unaccustomed to. John treated Sherlock as is according for a human being.

 

He smiled at Sherlock, even when he knew that John was cross with him. He offered to help Sherlock when it was clear that he was in need of it. He enjoyed spending time with him, he was unabashedly in love with John and to sit here and watch him sink deeper and deeper in despair because of him was something that was worse than any pain that could be inflicted on his person.

 

“How did he react to the news of your lifestyle?”

 

“...He was...unhappy. I’m sure that brings you joy.”

 

Moriarty cocked his head as he squeezed John’s shoulders, ignoring the way he flinched each time. Sherlock traced his fingers along the back of the chair, searching for a chip in the wood. He was only granted splinters as reward.

 

“Should it?”

 

Moriarty paused and looked down at John’s shoulder. His dark brows furrowed and he squeezed the shoulder once more. Sherlock winced at the sight of John trying to hold in the pain caused by Moriarty’s agitation of the wound.

 

“Hm...What odd scars you have…”

 

Sherlock’s heart stopped beating altogether. There was a rip in John’s shirt, a rip right on top of the stitches Sherlock spent days sewing on John’s body.

 

_No. Not now. Not ever._

 

Moriarty ripped the sleeve further in order to examine John’s arm. There it was as clear as day. John’s sutures, his ghastly, messy, black sutures that held his mismatched limbs together. Ones that Sherlock couldn’t remove and would likely be adorned by John for years. Moriarty’s eyes widened and a wicked smile spread across his face. The sadist, the monster.

 

John, however, looked confused and fearful.

 

“What is this? Why John, how are you still able to move?”

 

Sherlock intervened.

 

“Moriarty! You seek quarrel with me, you have it! Leave John out of this!”

 

“Not when we are in the thralls of entertainment!”

 

Moriarty bent down and began to unbutton John’s shirt. The humiliation on John’s face nearly brought Sherlock to tears. Moriarty stared at the scars on John’s chest, on his left shoulder, around his neck. He gaped at him as if he were a scientific marvel. It sickened Sherlock to his very core to see John subjected to such embarrassment, to be reduced to this. Sherlock shook in his chair hoping that maybe he could be free of his bindings so he could save John. He would not be able to tell John the origin of his life. No being could be able to hear a story like that.

 

“Did you think this was normal? I regret calling you clever now.”

 

“What do you...Sherlock….What does he mean?...What’s wrong with me?”

 

Sherlock looked away and closed his eyes. It was all a dream, it had to be. He would awaken in the flat with John holding him and snoring so lightly that Sherlock had to strain to hear.  There would be no Moriarty, no danger, just a nightmare.

 

Moriarty chuckled at the look of guilt written all over Sherlock’s face. He had to tell John, he deserved to be informed of how he came to be and how he came to be loved.

 

“It is….it is complicated, John…”

 

“What am I, Sherlock?” John’s tone became harder at Sherlock’s reluctance to answer his inquiries. The truth might not have been uncovered but John knew now that something was very wrong. Sherlock was keeping something from him.

 

“Don’t be daft, you are John...you are my…”

 

“Sherlock!” He demanded.

 

John had never yelled at him before.

 

The way John’s chest heaved, his eyes became hysterical, he was scared, confused, but it had nothing to do with the kidnapping.

 

“What would you have me say? Would you care to hear every sordid detail of how you came to be? It does not matter anymore, John! You are here now, and you are with me, and I with you.”

 

Moriarty pressed his hands to his mouth as he watched the scene unfold in front of him.

 

“Sherlock I’m...why must you fight me? How have I ‘come to be’?”

 

Sherlock strained his raw skin against the rope and the cold wood of the chair. He did not want to exist, he wished that he could be granted the gift of disappearance so that he would not have to go through with this already painful moment.

 

“...If you must know how it was done...then fine. I shall tell you, I shall tell you all that you need to know.”

 

John exhaled and nodded.

 

“You were...created in my laboratory...months ago.”

 

“The attic of our flat?”

 

“That very one.”

 

John’s mouth quirked to the left as he sniffed angrily.

 

It was then that Moriarty joined the conversation.

 

“This is a tale that I do not wish to hear.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Release us.”

 

Moriarty shook his head and wagged his finger.

 

“Not until you promise me, Sherlock.”

 

“Promise you what?”

 

Moriarty shoved his hands in his pockets.

 

“That you will make use of your laboratory once more and create another one of these....whatever you deem them...for myself. I wish to have a live-in.”

 

Sherlock scoffed.

 

“I thought you were repulsed by my homosexuality. Why would you desire a male companion?”

 

“It is not about intimacy, I merely wish to have a man that would never think to betray me or deny me. A minion if you will. A custom one.”

 

Sherlock thought for a moment before asking, “And if I refuse?”

 

Another sly chuckle left his mouth as he pulled a gun from his jacket pocket.

 

“If you refuse me, I am sure that you won’t object to a bullet in the head. Or perhaps I take your John away. Oh how it would ruin you to be away from him, wouldn’t it Sherlock?”

 

A moment of silence.

 

“I think we’ve come to an understanding so now I permit your leave.”

 

Moriarty’s henchmen cut John and Sherlock from their bindings and moved so that the two hostages would be able to nurse their tender skin. Moriarty holstered the gun and clapped a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and said, “I shall give you two and a half months to create my man. I will personally stop off at your flat to ensure that progress is being made and at the end, that he is finished.”

 

Sherlock and John moved towards the door while Moriarty waved and said, “Good evening, gentlemen.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so the reason why I used the Carl Powers case and reversed it because I feel like, if Sherlock got the police to listen to him he would have never become a Consulting Detective, and since Scotland Yard listened to him in this fic, he never became the only Consulting Detective in the world.


	16. Apology

John had not spoken a word to Sherlock since they left that godforsaken bathhouse, He hadn’t even uttered a syllable to him. Now privy to his true nature, his unnatural birth, he knew he was not a human like he’d thought and now he would never regain that illusion again. How long had he stared at the scars and sutures in the mirror and assumed that everyone else looked the same? He had never seen Sherlock naked, not even partially, how would he know what was normal and what wasn’t? Especially when the man he loved was the most peculiar man in all of London. It was fitting, Sherlock thought, that he was now accompanied by another in the world who was considered an abomination and how fitting it was that Sherlock should love the other odd man in London. All the time he prayed that John would not be branded with the label of an outsider, that he would be able to live a normal life with him. Why did he fool himself into thinking that he didn’t harm all the people around him? That he would not ruin John’s life irreparably and that John would not come away without a smidge of hatred for his creator, for his lover.

 

How could two people who had never been intimate even claim to be lovers? All the times John had wanted to progress to that stage with Sherlock was met with the man succumbing to bashfulness, insecurity, and self-hatred. Part of him, although he was loathe to admit, was glad that they have never gotten that far. How would John have reacted once he noticed the stark contrast between Sherlock’s smooth skin, and his own scarred flesh? And how would Sherlock recover from the loss of an intimacy he’d been craving for nearly all his life? He was an idiot for not thinking this through back at the manor, when John was only an idea.

 

_I am terribly sorry for all the hurt I have caused you. I deserve your anger, I deserve your cold demeanor. I love you enough to allow you this._

 

The cab rocked as the horses turned and navigated through the London streets. In the duration they had spent sitting inches apart from each other, John had not turned to him even once. Sherlock should have told him about all of this but he hadn’t expected someone like Moriarty to reveal the secrets.The way the man had stared at him with those beady eyes, sneered at him, remarked upon how ghastly his stitches were. Why did he not try hard enough to make them cleaner, why did he have to rush the construction so? Now John would be be reminded of this day each time he undressed, after every bath, the mirrors would have to be removed from their rooms.

 

_He won’t ever want to share a bed with you. You are the cause of his pain._

 

He thought it best for John never to look at him again. Those eyes, steady and enchanting, they would never look at him the same way. What would he do once they returned to the flat? Would John want further explanations? Would he force Sherlock to tell him every detail from his construction up until their first meeting? Or could Sherlock lock himself away and wait for the day John would finally tell Sherlock how much he despised him and that what they had would never happen again? Sherlock would surely crumble at hearing those words. They were ugly, bitter words, they did not fit John’s mouth or his suit his voice. Then again, Sherlock would be deserving of it all. John’s life was yet another he destroyed, but Sherlock’s life would too shatter if John were to ever leave him. There was no Sherlock Holmes without his John Watson, not anymore.

 

John folded his hands and sniffed, the first sound that either of them had made during the entirety of their trip. Sherlock’s eyes travelled to the rags that John’s shirt had become. Ripped in nearly every spot, white stained with red, and then there was the black of that thread that held his body together. Uneven stitching, heavy on the top and then light on the bottom. He had done his best, Mrs. Hudson had always done the sewing for the brothers because she didn’t think it proper for men of their standing to mend their own wardrobe. Pity too, who knew that he would later need that skill to accomplish what he had.

 

With one last look of John’s tattered clothing, he turned to look out the window. He could have sworn that he saw John’s gaze linger on him in the reflection. Sherlock made the quick decision to not speak a word until after they’d reached Baker Street. Everything would be left just as it was before the attack, Sherlock would have to replace the china and the chair that sported the broken leg. He would also have to reveal that he had read John’s journal. Sherlock would tell him that it must’ve dropped when he was taken and that he hadn’t a clue before he read it that it belonged to him. It was very likely that John would become upset at hearing this, but he would rather John know than pretend that he did not invade his privacy. A habit that he tended to do often. And either way, John Watson was going to leave him, what did it matter to add fuel to the fire that would incinerate Sherlock’s heart?

 

They reached the flat and Sherlock paid while John hurried up the stairs and into the building. Before Sherlock could do the same, he was stopped by Inspector Lestrade.

 

“Mr. Holmes!”

 

Sherlock turned to face the Inspector with feigned geniality. Had he come any time other than now, everything would have been alright.

 

“Detective...Geoff?”

 

“It’s Gregory, sir.”

 

“Ah yes, quite the common name. What is it?”

 

“Right, I’ve complaints of noise coming from your flat. 221B is it?”

 

Sherlock nodded, “That would be the one.”

 

“I came up for further inspections but the flat was vacant. Where have you been?”

 

Sherlock moved towards the stairs and watched carefully as Lestrade inched closer to him with every step he took.

 

“I am afraid that is my own affair, Inspector. Alas, you’ve no reason to worry I have not been up to illegal acts, if that was what you are wondering.”

 

_Liar._

 

“I hadn’t a worry, I’ve only come to do my job. Tell me, before I leave, how is your face?”

 

“Healing. That is all.”

 

Lestrade tipped his hat and turned to walk away only to stop again and say, “Mr. Holmes, if there is anything the matter there is no shame in asking for aid.”

 

“And what is the reason behind this statement?”

 

The policeman shrugged.

 

“You have the look of a man in need, is all.”

 

Sherlock clenched his fist and bit his lower lip. He had to attend to John, that was his first priority at the moment. He walked up the stairs to the door.

 

“Good day Mr. Holmes.”

 

“...Sherlock.”

 

Gregory looked puzzled. “Pardon?”

 

Sherlock seemed reluctant to restate himself at first, but took a deep breath and said, “You may call me Sherlock. Mr. Holmes makes me sound more like my brother than I would like.”

 

He refused to acknowledge the small smile on the Detective Inspector’s face as he walked away. Sherlock opened the door and stepped inside the building, shutting the door behind him. John had not not waited for him as he usually did, instead having gone inside the flat already. When Sherlock finally made his way up the stairs, he found John sitting in the armchair, his head was propped upon his arm and his body slumped as if it were too heavy for him to support. He looked annoyed, angry, crestfallen. Sherlock went to take his coat off and hung it up. John did not even utter a word. He sat down in the chair opposite John’s and stared at him. He did not know how much time had passed until he heard his companion’s voice.

 

“Tell me how it was done.” His voice was harsh, cold, nothing at all like the voice Sherlock was accustomed to.

 

“I already have.”

 

John slammed his fist down on the arm of the chair, creating a loud sound throughout the flat. Sherlock sat up immediately.

 

“I demand you tell me exactly how I came to be….the origin of my story, Sherlock. You understand what I ask of you, yet you dodge my questions. Now you must answer.”

 

Sherlock swallowed hard. He didn’t want John to see how his eyes watered at the way he was being spoken to by the one person who had never talked to him like that. Only a few hours ago, John held so much love, so much regard towards Sherlock, and now...it was as if John could barely stand to look at him. Sherlock clenched his hands together, wanted to make sure that he could keep the urge to cry at bay. This story would take an eternity to tell if Sherlock were to break down now.

 

“I’ve already told you of my brother’s death at the manor, I’d rather not retell it if that is alright.”

 

“I’ve got all night, Sherlock.”

 

“What you have had the fortune of missing was my descent into complete and utter despair. I’d gone days without eating, drinking sleeping. It was at Mrs. Hudson’s insistence that I would consume anything more than a slice of toast and a cup of tea. I have never felt more alone than after his passing John, you must understand. There were even nights were I contemplated the thought of death and how I would be able to take my own life.” Sherlock took a shaking breath in, thankful there were no tears.

 

“I wondered how I would alleviate myself of the pain, John, how I would be able to have my brother back or at least someone to care for and to care about me. These thoughts plagued my mind and it was to expel them from my head that I began to study death and rebirth. I thought it was evil that, of all the stories I have read as a child - Snow White, Sleeping Beauty - they were all sent to their eternal rest but at the very end were revived and given the chance to start anew. It angered me to think of the unfairness of it all. How was it that they were able to come back while my brother rotted beneath the earth? It pained me that I would never see him again and so I devised a plan to create life from death.”

 

“You did not use your brother as the subject?” John seemed to relax a fraction while listening to Sherlock’s tragic tale. Would he forgive him after? That was all Sherlock wanted from John - forgiveness and love. If John desired to make love to him, then Sherlock would not shy away from him this time.

 

“I did not. I would not disrespect him that way. I allowed his rest to continue. However, that did not solve my issue of finding the correct...materials.”

 

John’s leg started to shake and his hand rested under his chin as Sherlock spoke.

 

“Using Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man, I set out at nightfall and went to the cemetery to retrieve the parts necessary for a human to possess. That was the only other time I visited Mycroft’s grave as well. I assembled the parts fairly quickly, but not as discreetly as I would have liked, seeing as how the run-in with Sally and Anderson went.”

 

“That is the reason they attacked you? They spotted you in the cemetery and while they incorrectly assumed your goings on, they were not far from the truth. They remembered your face from all that time ago.”

 

“I am not proud of what I did, John, but I am proud that it resulted in you. For a better man, I have never known.”

 

“Continue, please.”

 

“I set out for Baker Street that same night, after appointing Mrs. Hudson as caretaker of the manor. It was here that I assembled your body after spending many sleepless nights acquiring the notes and plans to construct you. The process took weeks, perhaps months, I had spent much of that time ill and bereaved.”

 

“What of the night when I awoke? When you attacked me.”

 

Sherlock cringed. He had not meant to inflict any harm upon John. That night he had been frightened and distraught over the failure of his venture. John awakening, mobile, alive, was that last thing he had expected.

 

“As I said, it took some time before I completed the construction of your body. You did not wake as I so hoped you would. It tormented me to realize that all of my work, the risk to which I put my health, was all for naught. Mentally, I was in worse shape than I am now, and I have you to thank for the improvement. I could not take it anymore, John. Furious, I grabbed your body off of the cot that it had laid upon for days and carried your limp, heavy body down the stairs where I flung it into the darkness of the night and left you. I berated myself for thinking that such a foolish plan would ever work, that you would ever receive the life that I yearned for you to have. It was with a heavy heart that I dragged myself to bed and cried the most bitter tears I have never thought myself capable. I watched as the rain raged on outside and wept even harder at the sadness that tugged at my heart. You were a failure, as far as I knew,  and thus so was I. To this very day I am not sure what bid you wake, perhaps it was the lighting that came crashing down dangerously close to the building, or maybe I did not have enough faith in your birth. You did it, John. You found your way to me and although you could neither speak nor even walk properly, I knew that you would be everything I could ever hope for in a companion. Falling so deeply in love with you, however, came as a surprise even to me. Please accept my sincerest apologies for hurting you that night. I was drained and you did stagger in as a burglar would.”

 

Sherlock rose from his seat and bent down in front of John. He rested a hesitant hand on John’s cheek and stroked it gently with his thumb. Once he saw John’s hand leave from under his chin, he leant forward and allowed John the choice of kissing him or not. He tried not to grin as he felt the coarse skin of John’s lips meet his own. Sherlock moved his hands up to cup John’s face and moaned once he felt John’s fingers run  over his sensitive scalp and clutch the silky locks. He pulled John’s body in so that the kiss might deepen; he’d always wanted more from John, wanted to have him wholly, and now he would give in to all of his carnal desires if John wished it. It was unholy to love someone as much as he loved John.

 

The blond pulled away first, his breathing rapid and unsteady. Sherlock’s eyes were half-lidded and his breaths were short but lustrous. John kissed Sherlock once more, but it was merely a peck on the lips, and then another, followed by a last one. John smirked as he watched Sherlock become even more aroused from the teasing pecks and tried as hard as he could to ignore the hardening in Sherlock’s groin, which was pressed against his leg. How long had John wanted this? To have Sherlock like this and all to himself?

 

“John, tell me you forgive me. All I wish for you to say is that I’ve been pardoned for my wrongdoings towards you. I only wished for companionship, someone that would care for me as much as my brother had. I’ve spent so long alone, and to have you now, for you to hold such hatred, such anger towards me for withholding your creation from you. Words cannot express how badly it aches. I…If you must go, if you absolutely cannot bear my presence, I understand, but please, forgive me.”

 

He kissed John again in hopes a smile would form on that sullen face that did not suit John one bit.

 

“Sherlock, you know that I am wounded that you would keep such dire information from me. Why is it that you thought it best to keep me in ignorance rather than tell me of my true nature, why you desperately sought to create a creature like me?”

 

“You are not a creature, John. Do not ever refer to yourself as such. You are my John, you are my saving grace, my best and only friend. You are the most kind and wise man to have ever graced my presence and I do not want you out of my life. Not now. Not ever.”

 

Sherlock laughed as he watched John’s face soften. He loved the feeling of John’s hand slowly gliding against his cheek.

 

“Sherlock, I am angry, I am hurt. You lied to me, you let me live in the illusion that I was normal, that you sported these scars just the same as I. Yet all I can do is forgive you. I am sure, being the intelligent man that you are, that I have no other company on this earth save you. And I’m also sure that I do not want any other but you, Sherlock. You are my best friend, you are my only friend, I shall never find another like you even if I wanted to. I love you Sherlock, and only you.”

 

“I am honored to have made you, John Watson. The Vitruvian Man deals only in physical properties, but you, my dear John, you have the heart and soul of the perfect man. I am terribly sorry for doing what I have done to you, but I only meant to protect you. I did not know how you would react had I told you way back when.”

 

John’s hand moved down to Sherlock’s shoulder and he gripped it lightly.

 

“Will you kiss me?” Sherlock asked with the tone of a child. John only smiled and said, “You only need to ask,” before pressing their lips together again.

 

They had a daunting amount of labour ahead of them over the next few weeks but Sherlock knew that as long as he had John by his side he could and would accomplish anything to keep their happiness.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays from myself and Chanolay!


	17. Necessary Evils

       The moonlight shone through the window as the two slept, well, as John slept. Sherlock was nestled against John’s chest, listening to the sound of his heart and loving every soft thump that it made. John was more exhausted than Sherlock had ever seen him be before, but they had begun their progress on Moriarty’s creation with only a few notes and sketches to show for it.

 

What use would the madman have for such a person? If John was anything to go by, then this creation would possibly be even gentler, more fragile, than John had been on the night of their meeting. Well, Sherlock did throw a vase at him, and it did little more than stun him. There was also the possibility that this one would not come to life, even John was nothing short of a miracle. He kissed the warm chest and rested a hand on John’s soft arm as he gently stroked the skin. John had been his rock during this process. Although it may have seemed like nothing to an outsider, they had made great progress in the time they had spent working on the project. It was John that would rouse Sherlock from his slumber in that uncomfortable chair in the laboratory. It was John that forced the breaks for food and baths where he would then do a remarkable job washing Sherlock’s hair. Today, however, it had been Sherlock who dragged John to their room because the poor man could not keep his eyes open for a moment longer. He placed a gentle kiss onto John’s lips and the man did not even stir.

 

Part of Sherlock could not help but feel guilty over the fact that John was now forced to work in the very lab in which he was created. The news was still relatively new to him and he knew that, although John forgave him, this information festered within him like a fresh wound. Sherlock had not meant to upset him, but he also had no intention of telling him that he was not human, that he was not created and born as Sherlock was. It was good to know that John did still love him, as he was given no indication otherwise, and there was nothing he needed more than to have John’s love.

 

 _‘I shall surely die if I were to ever lose him,’_ Sherlock pondered in his mind as he watched the blond sleep, mouth hung open slightly and the soft, almost quiet snores leaving his lips. His hand moved from John’s arm and rested on his face. He had done a good job, quite a good job.

 

He rolled over and faced the bright moon. There would be no sleep for him tonight, and John would surely berate him in the morning for not getting his proper eight hours, but he simply could not will himself to slumber. With a sigh, he heaved himself out of bed and walked around it to exit the room when he felt John’s hand grasp his thin wrist before he could be out of arm's reach. Sherlock turned his head to find John still half-asleep, staring up at him with glazed eyes and something resembling a frown.

 

“Where are we off to?”

 

Sherlock attempted to free himself of John’s grip but his hold was firm, and that meant he would get him to lay back down.

 

“I was only going to review our notes, John.”

 

“You will do no such thing, Holmes. Bed, I’ve read that sleep is good for the body and good is what your body needs.”

 

Ever the stubborn git, John was.

 

“John, I’ll only be but a moment. You will not even notice my absence from the bed.”

 

“It appears as though I already have.”

 

Sherlock smiled and sat at the very edge of the bed. Without words, he bent down and kissed John, and to his delight, it was John that deepened the kiss. When they finally parted, John’s hand was now covering the one Sherlock had resting on his bare chest. Even in such poor lighting, John could always reduce Sherlock to nothing with a simple grin. He would have surely died if he did not have John’s face to remind him why staying was worth it.

 

“Your kisses will not sway my mind, Sherlock. You and I agreed upon slumbering together. Therefore, if I should retire, so should you, and the same of me with you.”

 

“Sleeping is boring, John.”

 

“Sleep is what keeps us breathing, love.”

 

Sherlock could not help but chuckle. What was it about the night that made everyone so sentimental? The both of them especially. He kissed John again and replied, “That would be oxygen.”

 

John only rubbed his hand with the pad of his thumb. Sherlock could admit John was good at distracting him, even when their very lives depended on the completion of Moriarty’s man. Sherlock stood up and said, “John, you understand the importance of this, we must get this done.”

 

John’s face turned grim at the mention of Moriarty and his threat.

 

“I should think that it will not be completed in less than a fortnight, as well. We will sleep and continue our work in the morning.”

 

“John.”

 

“If you insist on working, then I shall accompany you.”

 

“How unnecessary.”

 

“So then how shall this play out?”

 

Sherlock had half a mind to continue to the laboratory and complete the last set of notes they needed before they could begin the actual construction of the body. He was thankful for John’s help, it would surely take longer had he done it on his own. However, the vacant spot on the bed looked enticing to the weary man now. He should not be such a fool to pick the lab but he could never resist John, and as of right now, he certainly could not resist sleep. With a pout on his face he returned to his side of the bed and settled in. He turned his back to John but this did not stop the other man from wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s waist and pressing his cheek against his neck.

 

“I have only returned because I am weary, I did not do as you said.”

 

He could _hear_ John’s smirk.

 

“Of course not.”

 

Sherlock had half a mind to start a fight but he could not help the smile at the comment and finally, with the work of John’s rhythmic breathing, lulled himself to sleep.

 

When he awoke in the morning, he found John staring at him with the warmest of smiles on his face. He reached over and moved some of the dark curls that covered Sherlock’s forehead and let out a sigh.

 

“The thought of leaving our bed upsets me, it is rare to see you in such a state of happiness, Sherlock.”

 

“Nonsense, John. We shall be busy at work today, and had you allowed me to return to work the night before, I would see no qualms in spending our day in bed, doing whatever we desire.”

 

John kissed him. “How long do we have until his visit is due?”

 

“About half a month.”

 

“We have more than enough time.”

 

Sherlock sighed and moved to sit up in the bed. He turned to look at John and pushed his leg. John smirked but did not budge, and Sherlock rolled his eyes as he slid out of the bed for the second time that day.

 

“Come, we must eat first.”

 

“I believe I know what I am already in the mood for.”

 

Sherlock raised his eyebrow waiting to hear what John wanted for breakfast, but he noticed the lecherous look that John gave him, which prompted another eye roll. He moved to walk out of the room before John shot up and wrapped his arms around his waist.

 

“I jest, Sherlock.”

 

“You are feeling quite the brave man this morning, aren’t you?”

 

John didn’t respond. He only peppered kisses all over Sherlock’s shoulder and then his neck. As much as Sherlock wanted to be mad at him, he did not see reason and decided that John should be forgiven. He removed John’s hands from his waist and grabbed one as he led him to the dining room. He fully expected John to take his seat while he scrounged something up for the both of them to eat, but John followed him into the kitchen. Sherlock frowned, they would have to shop for groceries soon.

 

“As long as we’ve some eggs in our meals, I have no preference for breakfast.”

 

“Eggs, ham, and beans with toast.”

 

“Splendid.”

 

Sherlock smiled and motioned for John to take a seat, but he did not budge.

 

“John, it is fine, have your seat while I prepare breakfast.”   

 

“No.”

 

Sherlock huffed and placed a hand on his hip. Must John be so difficult today? It only took a moment to cook the food, Sherlock had not required John’s assistance in the past, and he would not require it now. John only smiled and kissed him again.

 

“Why must you always fight me on such menial things? I wish to help you, why won’t you accept it?”

 

Sherlock wished that he could answer that question, he truly did. He could tell John that it was because he was used to being alone, that he was used to doing everything by himself. He had Mrs. Hudson, but she was only his maternal figure. She wasn’t his friend; she wasn’t the person he ran to when he needed help. Sherlock had never had that before John. Mycroft had only helped Sherlock when he could not help himself, such as all of the times that he had carried his little brother home from those disgusting dens that were inhabited by the other drug addicts and criminals of London’s Underworld. Other than that, it was Sherlock who was left alone with his thoughts, with his tears, with his loneliness. He only placed his hand on John’s round cheek and smirked.

 

“You’ll find no answer from me. I cannot answer that for you.”

 

“May I assist you, Sherlock?”

 

There was still that need to deny John that simple request. To say, _‘No John, because I must do everything on my own.’_ He couldn’t find the voice to say those words. If John wanted to help him cook eggs, although he would have to teach the man because John had never cooked a thing in his short life. He nodded and handed John the eggs. The time they spent cooking did wonders for them. They smiled more than they might have ever done in their time together. Sherlock laughed and teased more than John had ever seen him. He seemed softer, like the icy walls he built around his heart were finally melting and that John could finally see the Sherlock that was hidden away. Sherlock has never seen John so eager, so affectionate, sure there were the times where John has expressed the need to be intimate with Sherlock, but today, in this moment, Sherlock could not get enough of the sweet kisses that John showered upon him while he concentrated on not burning the food. By the end of it, their meals were left nearly untouched on their plates, but it was alright because neither of them felt hungry anymore. Sherlock wasn’t sure when he stopped caring for the food, but maybe it had something to do with the way John smiled when he made his plate effortlessly, or the kiss that Sherlock received soon after. It was probably the way John whispered, “I love you” in his ear before they took their seats.

 

It would all come to an end wouldn’t it?

 

Moriarty would return, and he would ruin their lives, if the authorities did not do it first. Who was to say that the villain hadn’t already informed the police of their “scandalous” lifestyle? How would they defend themselves against all of Scotland Yard as well as the English court? He would defend John to the death, literally, if the need arose. None of this was John’s fault; he did not know that a relationship such as theirs was illegal and frowned upon. It was Sherlock, the selfish one out of the two, who put John in such a position. He would rather see himself clapped in irons than John. Sherlock had nothing to live for anyway, John; however, John had everything to live for.

 

“Sherlock, have you finished your food?”

 

Sherlock blinked twice and stared at John with a hint of confusion on his face. How long had John been talking, how long had he not been listening? Immediately, Sherlock nodded and watched as John disposed of the bits of ham and toast that Sherlock did not touch. Sherlock heard John talking once more about how little Sherlock ate, and what the normal amount of food was for him to be eating in a day. It all sounded like a jumbled mess to the distracted man who absentmindedly sipped away at his tea.

 

“Are you listening?”

 

Sherlock placed the cup down and shook his head.

 

“I’m afraid not. My mind is elsewhere.”

 

“Where, exactly?”

 

“In the laboratory.”

 

With that, he rose from his chair and moved through the flat and up the stairs faster than John could keep up. John set the dish down and rushed up the stairs behind Sherlock, who was already busy at work, sketching the body of the creature they would be creating and muttering to himself. For a moment, John only watched, he was sure that Sherlock was not even aware of his presence, he hardly ever was when he was in this state. John waited in the doorway to see if Sherlock would even turn his head in his direction, to see if maybe he would order him to fetch his tea downstairs, or even to come and review the notes they both spent sleepless nights on. No recognition came, Sherlock sat hunched over, scribbling away on the paper resting on the cot that would house the next man, the new John.

 

“It doesn’t bother you?” He cursed himself for saying those words before thinking. Sherlock placed the pencil down and looked over at John.

 

“Pardon?”

 

John waved his hand in the air. The laboratory, the cot, the notes, this was how he was born...no, this is how he was **_created_**. He was glad that Sherlock finally revealed to him his true nature, and he bore no ill will towards him, his lover, his creator. There had to be the twinge of uneasiness in Sherlock during this process if he did not even want to share with John the tale of how he came to be. He had no father, he had no mother, nor had he a brother as Sherlock was blessed to have, he was able to accept these facts. Why should they bring another being into this life? He would wake and be handed off to Moriarty who would do God knows what with him. Did Sherlock truly have no issue with giving this creature….this person, a life of servitude with no hope for escape?

 

“All of this. Does it not bring you discomfort to draw up notes, to design a body for another male? Do you not see any fault with this?”

 

Sherlock sighed and he ran his hands through his hair.

 

“John, you must understand, I’ve gone through the same process whilst creating you. Were there stages in the creation process that I have found in poor taste? Absolutely, but I do not regret it for a moment, because now, and it brings me much pleasure to say, I love your company.”

 

“And what of this poor bloke? Are we to just hand him over to Moriarty without a care in the world?”

 

Sherlock’s lips tightened and John fought the urge to embrace Sherlock once he saw the brunet’s pout.

 

“I did not say that I find joy in my work. In order to protect ourselves, we must do this, please heed my words when I tell you that there is nothing worse than to be jailed for being in love.”

 

“What will happen then? If we do not meet his deadline, what shall become of us?”

 

Sherlock’s eyes looked sunken in, as if the very thought of their punishment brought him great distress.

 

“It all depends on the heartlessness of the courts, you’ve seen what they’ve done to Wilde, haven’t you? Sentenced to hard labor, that’s considered a light punishment in regard to the law he broke. It is Gross Indecency, John.”  He spoke with a soft harshness, and from the tone alone John could see how severe their situation is. “Which would you prefer, hm? Would you want to ingest medication that drastically changes your hormones so that you might ‘suppress’ your sexual urges? Or if that seems unappealing to you, why not simply go to jail and serve your sentence there, for however long that may be. Or if that does not suit you, there is always the very convenient alternative of  execution! John, listen to me when I tell you that there is no worse crime than to be a homosexual in these trying times. There are cases of rape that were not handled as severely as they would us should the police ever hear news of our being together!”

 

John was speechless and could not help but feel bad for making Sherlock cry yet again.

 

“I do not enjoy this, nor do I ever want to do such a thing like this ever again! I have only done it the once so that I might finally have a companion, one that would present me with the undying affection of a friend, of a family member, I had not meant to fall so helplessly in love with you! We have little over a month to create this man, and when that time has run out, we shall hand him over to Moriarty so that we may live and love in secrecy. Don’t you see, my dear John, that there is little I would not do to ensure your safety? Our safety?”

 

John looked down. He got his answer. Sherlock cared deeply about the new man they were creating but he choose to not dwell upon it and to forced himself to believe that he did not care. He was not cold, and as John spent more time with him he realized that Sherlock was a man who loved too much. He loved with a heart that John was sure belonged to no other in the world, even though he knew no more than three people outside of Baker Street, he was sure that Sherlock Holmes was a rare sort and it made him proud to love him, to have him wholly to himself. In no time, he was over at Sherlock’s side and rubbing gentle circles on his back. He winced each time Sherlock sniffled or let out a choked sob.

 

“Oh John, I am an awful man, redeemed only by the warmth and constancy of your love. You, it is always you...you keep me right…”

 

John’s only response was to kiss Sherlock’s head and to let the man cry, as long as he needed to, upon his shoulder. With each sob, each sniffle, each time he felt a tear fall onto his skin, John cursed Moriarty a thousand times over. Sherlock was a good man and he deserved more than what he got. They only had a month and some weeks to complete this new Vitruvian Man, and seeing the state it had reduced Sherlock to, John would be by his side every step of the way.

 

 


	18. Alone No Longer

John heard the way Sherlock coughed from where he sat in the laboratory. The body of the man was splayed atop the metal table and John had just finished recording his thoughts in his journal. He sighed, he hadn’t had much time to himself since Sherlock fell ill. He had told the man time and time again to rest and eat accordingly, and each time he assumed that Sherlock had finally obeyed him, he would find Sherlock shivering in the attic while attending to the body. They had nearly finished the man and the allotted two months were not yet reached. While John was grateful, Sherlock always found something that needed to be changed or another stitch that needed to be sewn. Sherlock was anxious, that much was obvious, and he was likely scared. Moriarty threatened to report them to the police, and after everything John had seen, Sherlock would not do well in prison, especially without his company. There was the other fact that Sherlock was quite ashamed of his sexuality. It saddened John to see the way he looked at odds with himself after a kiss or going to bed together. He knew that Sherlock loved him deeply but there persisted a pang of self-hatred that coursed through Sherlock at intervals. John cursed Sherlock’s brother, Thomas, and Mrs. Hudson for it. He was a good man and he deserved the world, not this fear of something so pure and harmless.

 

Sherlock coughed loudly again, it was dry, and it made John cringe whenever he heard it. He had half a mind to send for a doctor, but Sherlock was a stubborn fool and insisted on suffering. He sat still and waited for Sherlock’s coughing to cease, until he then heard the horrible sounds of retching and knew that his hacking became so severe that it forced him to become sick, no doubt Sherlock failed to make it to the washroom in time and vomited all over the floor. John sighed and closed his journal as he made his way down the stairs.

 

“John!” Sherlock moaned. He sounded no better than a reanimated corpse.

 

“Hush, Sherlock, I am here.”

 

John was unsure, but the sound that Sherlock gave was something between a sob and a cough. What a miserable creature he had become. John took his seat at the edge of the bed, careful to avoid the puddle of Sherlock’s regurgitation. As he suspected, it was nothing more than bile, seeing as though Sherlock refused to ingest anything, not even tea. John shook his head and rested a hand on Sherlock’s clammy back. The man was running a fever, he could tell that much.

 

“How does he fare?”

 

“I do hope, Sherlock, that you are not inquiring on the state of our man upstairs.”

 

Sherlock only moaned and settled into the pillows. John’s hand moved to rest atop the damp curls. He would need a bath soon, preferably a cold one.

 

“You realize that your health would improve greatly if you would only take better care of yourself, yes?”

 

Sherlock did not respond. His eyes were closed so John assumed that he had fallen asleep. He removed his hand and stood up to clean the mess on the floor. It was then he heard Sherlock’s pitiful voice whine, “Stay, please.”

 

“I must clean this up, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock groaned. He truly was the epitome of the wretched patient. John felt badly for Sherlock - How could he not? - but then he had warned Sherlock repeatedly of the consequences that would befall him if he did not manage his body better. If Sherlock did not get well before the end of the week, then he would send for a doctor even if Sherlock wished against it. The man was working himself to the very extremes of fatigue, dehydration, and malnutrition so this was a price he would have to pay. John found supplies to clean the mess on the floor, thankful that Sherlock hadn’t eaten anything or else it would be much harder to remove. At this point, Sherlock had fallen asleep again. John wondered if he should join Sherlock in his nap, or leave him by himself while he tended to the dormant body upstairs. He shook his head. He was no better than Sherlock, he could not keep his mind off of the creation. The body was complete, John saw to the retrieval of the limbs due to Sherlock’s poor health and refusal to step anywhere near a cemetery. Sherlock himself mustered the courage to piece the limbs together while John watched slightly horrified and slightly intrigued.

 

Would this man be his brother, he wondered. They came from the same sort of womb, built upon the same cold metal table, made from pieces of corpses, and they were born from the same person, Sherlock Holmes. Moriarty would come for this man in a fortnight, and they were to hand off the poor sod to the madman without protest and assume that life would continue its peculiarly normal routine. They would wake, they would eat, they would read, and John would wonder what became of the creation. Did Moriarty treat him as well as Sherlock treated him? Would he come to fall in love with his companion too? Or would Moriarty twist the pure soul into someone even crueler and horrid than he is? These thoughts plagued his mind constantly and he had half a mind to tell Sherlock of his troubles, but then came to the decision that Sherlock was in no condition to hear of such worries.

 

Then came the thought of how they would bring him to life. Would it be as sudden and magnificent as John’s awakening was? Would it be painful and loud? How would this man, who lay upstairs unconscious, dead,  turn out to be? The prospects frightened and excited John. He loved the adrenaline, but he could not help but dread it. This man, Moriarty, could destroy their very lives - would the provision of a companion really eradicate such threats?

 

John walked over to the empty side of the bed and gently nudged Sherlock so that he would have sufficient room to fit. It was only noon, but John had little else to do and if Sherlock’s whining showed him anything, it was that the man was lonely.  Up in the room all day while stewing in your own filth with not a soul to talk to would evoke such an emotion. John did not want Sherlock to feel that way, not anymore, not while he was still around. As expected, Sherlock nestled himself into John’s chest. He could feel the heat exude from his sick lover and wrapped his arms tighter around him. He was shivering. John hoped that it would get worse before it got better, he could not bear it if Sherlock perished from an illness that was avoidable. He was not sure if Sherlock was actually sleeping, or merely resting his eyes.

 

“Come this evening I will run a bath to cool your body.”

 

Sherlock humphed, followed by soft snoring. John smiled and began stroking the curls as he continued, “Would this suit you?”

 

Sherlock hummed this time and slurred, “Fine.”

 

John pressed a kiss to the curls and then settled in so that he could hopefully get at least an hour or two of sleep. He was careful while he rested to listen to Sherlock as he slept. This way, if he were to break into a coughing fit or get sick again, John would be able to help rather than sit back and watch. They’d been resting for close to an hour and so far Sherlock had not been assaulted by another coughing fit. John took this as him really being asleep.

 

John ended up not getting any sleep because his worry for Sherlock outweighed his need for slumber but that did not bother him much since he was not tired in the first place. The sun was setting, and he decided that Sherlock should have something in his stomach. In slow, careful movements, he rose from the bed and tip-toed his way out of the room. Thankfully, Sherlock didn’t even stir. When John made his way downstairs, he checked the cupboards for anything that could be thrown together and cooked quickly so that he wouldn’t leave the man unattended for long. He used the very last bit of their ham and bread, making small portions of the meat on bread. It was nothing much, but paired with a cup of tea, it would do. He heard Sherlock groan from upstairs and immediately made his way up to their room and found Sherlock sitting up, coughing dryly and loud.

 

“Alright?”

 

“Aside from my throat burning with the flames of Hell, I believe I am...well enough.”

 

John smirked and took his seat at the edge of the bed.

 

“Does this mean you are well enough to eat?”

 

“John…”

 

“Before you speak, it is nothing but meat and bread. And you mustn’t forget the bath.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and laid back down. He placed a hand on Sherlock’s forehead - still warm. John shook his head and lifted the covers off.

 

“Come, I’ll assist you.”

 

Sherlock looked as if he wanted to protest but he sighed and grabbed John’s hand, getting himself up off the bed walking with John to the kitchen. He seated himself while John served him his food.

 

“Do you care for tea?”

 

Sherlock shook his head.

 

“The thought of ingesting even the bread is not very pleasant.”

 

“I am aware, Sherlock, but you must eat something or your illness will only worsen.”

 

“I only require a few days’ rest. You worry yourself too much.”

 

John’s brows furrowed and he crossed his arms.

 

“You’ll forgive me then for being concerned about your coughing fit, and there is also the fact that your sick was bile and nothing more.”

 

“I have been in this condition before, John. It was prior to…. you and I meeting...the months shortly before, I was just as ill if not worse and I had no one to care for me, and yet I survived.”

 

“When will you understand that you are no longer alone?”

 

Sherlock was silent and it was then he took a bite of the food. A mode of evasion, John realized. Even now, after all the time they spent together, Sherlock still thought that he had no one at his side, that he was still the lonely man before John. That was not the case, not while he was around.

 

“Have you looked upon our man?” Sherlock asked quietly, as if he were talking to the food and not to John.

 

“I have. All that is left is his awakening.”

 

Sherlock’s mouth twitched and he set the food down once again. His hands steepled under his chin, a frequent pose.

 

“Your waking was unexpected, as I have told you previously. I’ve no idea as to how we would rouse him from his dormant state.”

 

John sighed, whenever they come to the subject of John’s creation, or the night of his “birth” the air around them became awkward and tense, and it was situations like this that made John wish that he had been made normally, that he wouldn’t have to make Sherlock or himself so uncomfortable. There was little they could do now for this was the life he was thrust into and the life he would live.

 

“Was there anything else of note on the night I awoke?”

 

“The storm and the lightning.”

 

“Could the lightning have struck me?”

 

Sherlock snorted and John would have been offended had he not looked so pitiful in his sickness.

 

“A bolt of lightning struck you and reanimated you?”

 

“What else could have forced my heart into its rhythm? You yourself have claimed that I laid unmoving for some days before you...forfeited me.”

 

“I did no such thing. My anger was directed towards myself and I could not handle the failure that was my life.”

 

John’s nose twitched but he pressed the situation.

 

“The only likely reason for my reaching this point would be the lightning bolt that struck dangerously near the flat as you’ve described.”

 

Sherlock sighed and set his hands down on the table.

 

“I’ve not a clue as to how we should proceed in the manor, therefore I think it best that we carry out your idea.”

 

“How will we conduct the lighting into the body?”

 

Sherlock finished the last of his morsel.

 

“One thing at a time, my dear John.”

 

John shrugged and picked up the empty plate. As he turned to head into the kitchen, he said, “I’ll prepare your bath and then you will have a cup of tea.”

 

“Yes, I have the sudden need to be rid of these drenched clothes.”

 

John smiled.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit shorter than the other chapters, but it's alright! The next chapter should even it out. 
> 
> Thank you all again for reading!


	19. The Storm

John rolled up his sleeves and set out to collect the water. There was already some warming over the fire thankfully, that would help the water be just warm enough for Sherlock’s aches and pains. The tub was quickly filling up with each new addition and hot water added intermittently had steam rising from the surface. By the time it was ready for Sherlock, the water would be suitably cooled. John was perspiring with the effort but the ache in his muscles was energizing and knowing Sherlock would enjoy the bath provided more than enough motivation. This was the least he could do for someone putting all his effort into saving their lives.

 

When the tub was full, John returned to the kitchen where Sherlock was still at the table, gaze frozen upon something and his brows furrowed. John assumed the man upstairs was on his mind but soon those tired viridian eyes turned to him and John read guilt in their flicker. He smiled and dropped down to one knee before the man, finding his hands.

 

“Worry not, it is an effort I have no qualms in providing for you. I cannot help you in a great many ways other than this. Now come,” John stood, helping Sherlock rise from his seat and guiding him to the bath.

 

The room was warm and, John had to admit, the thought of the bath was quite inviting. He sat Sherlock down on the edge of the tub and began to disrobe him without a word.

 

Sherlock could not help but blush at the situation he was thrust into. He was sure that he smelled quite rank, due to his sweat-soaked clothes, but John was being polite about it. He wanted to tell John that it was alright, that he did not have to undress him as if he were an invalid, or a child incapable of undressing himself. He was ill, but he was not incapable.

 

“John...John you mustn’t do this.”

 

“Hush, I’m going to remove your clothes, and you are going to have your bath and love every moment of it.”

 

Sherlock only smiled, but the flush from his cheeks did not leave him. It was only a result of his sickness and he hoped that it would fade away. John slid the robe off of his shoulders and let it fall to the floor. Sherlock immediately wrapped the towel around his waist, as the heated perspiration of his body did not mix well with the cold draft of the flat. John ushered him into the warm water and went to retrieve Sherlock’s change of clothes. When he entered their room he rummaged through the surprisingly organized drawers. He found undergarments, as well as Sherlock’s sleep clothes, and a new robe. When he returned to Sherlock, the man’s eyes were shut, his head resting against the ledge of the tub.

 

“Enjoying yourself?”

 

Sherlock let out a low rumble and replied, “Quite.”

 

John set the clothes down and crossed his arms as he watched Sherlock sink further into the water.

 

“Would you care to join me?”

 

“Pardon? You want company?”

 

Sherlock smiled and shifted up.

 

“Must I repeat myself?”

 

John shrugged, a smile playing on his lips, “You might.”

 

Sherlock moved closer to John and asked, “Would you care to join me, John?”

 

John laughed and bent down so that he was only inches away from his lover’s face. He gave him a kiss and was pleased when Sherlock moved to deepen it. John rose to his feet again and Sherlock was pleased to see him removing his clothes. He’d wanted John’s company since he fell ill. He was lonely and there was nothing that brought him more solace than the familiar weight of John’s arms around his waist. He was glad that John was comfortable enough with Sherlock to be naked in his presence. Sherlock had turned down his sexual advances, John had learnt he was not entirely human and was kept together by sutures, and yet still wished to love Sherlock and even share a bath with him.

 

John had only a moment to settle in when Sherlock moved back into his arms. Sherlock let out a sigh when he felt John’s strong arms wrap around his waist. His sides were sore from all of the coughing and he hoped that John did not feel the way he winced when John squeezed a bit too hard.

 

“What’s wrong?”

 

Sherlock almost didn’t want to tell him of his sore body for he did not want to risk John’s arms to leaving him.

 

“Sherlock, if you are in any pain you must tell me.”

 

Sherlock hesitated but accepted that he would only make the situation worse by withholding the information from John.

 

“It is nothing; I fear that my sides have become a bit...tender from the coughing.”

 

Sherlock felt John’s hold slacken and frowned a bit. He regretting telling him, should’ve dealt with the pain. He closed his eyes when he felt John’s damp fingers run through his hair and he nearly mewled when John began to massage his scalp, silently begging him not to stop. Was John going to wash his hair? Sherlock wanted him to. He needed John to lather the soap in his hair and whisper sweet nothings into his ear while he did it. Was this his sickness or was it John’s magical fingers that were putting him to sleep?

 

“Tired?”

 

Sherlock hummed. “I admit I feel a bit weary.”

 

“Another symptom of feeling unwell, no doubt.”

 

“Or perhaps you do a magnificent job of grooming me.”

 

John smiled and pulled Sherlock’s hair slightly so that his head would tip back and meet John’s gaze. He smiled at the sight and puckered his lips so that he would be graced with John’s own. Indeed, the angle was awkward but their lips did meet in the sweetest of kisses.

 

“You are perfect; you realize?”

 

Sherlock blushed and shook his head.

 

“I do believe that you are filling your head with wild illusions.”

 

John chuckled and Sherlock felt the vibrations course through his body. John leaned forward and reached for the soaps to begin the task of washing Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock closed his eyes again as John took his time to massage his scalp and cover every curl on his head with the lavender and mint soap.

 

“Your curls are every bald man’s dream.”

 

That sparked a genuine laugh out of Sherlock. John had the humor that he wished he possessed. Sherlock turned over, almost forgetting that there was hardly enough room to do so. John only continued the process of washing Sherlock’s hair, and carried on as gently as possible. Sherlock closed his eyes and laid a hand on John’s arm. He realized that this would be the perfect opportunity for John to initiate intercourse with him. They were both nude, Sherlock was relaxed, if not a bit weak, the conditions were perfect. Yet, John made no move nor mention of any further intimacy than this, Sherlock found this mind-boggling.

 

“John.”

 

“Yes, love?”

 

Sherlock paused to hide his grin at John calling Sherlock that term of endearment. It was not the first time he had used it, but it was just a feeling Sherlock could not get used to.

 

“In all the time that we have spent in this bath, you have not once made any indication to want...more.”

 

“More in the sense of sexual intercourse?”

 

“Precisely.”

 

John let out a breath and removed his hands from Sherlock’s soapy curls, much to his dismay. He placed both hands on Sherlock’s arms and rubbed his thumbs against the soft, wet skin. Was this it? Was this all he needed to say in order to initiate it? Was he ready?

 

Sherlock’s chest went a bit tight at the possibility. The answer was no. No, he wasn’t ready. And even so, because of his curiosity, he had asked. His shoulders went stiff at what was to come. Inevitably John would see Sherlock’s question as permission and if Sherlock denied him, he would be nothing but terrible for tempting.

 

“Sherlock.” John’s voice was gentle and firm, yet Sherlock’s nerves did not calm.

 

“Do you wish to become intimate with me?”

 

“I...I…”

 

John’s lips pulled into a small smile. No mockery, nor playfulness, in his bearing - only love. He rubbed Sherlock’s arms and then encouraged him to turn over, which Sherlock obliged. Again anxiety surged through his sore body at the thought of what was to happen. To his surprise, John only began to rinse the soap from his curls.

 

“I will not force you to do something if it unsettles you, Sherlock. When you are ready, I will sense it and I will ask you for an answer. For now, we should enjoy one another’s company in this bath.”

 

“Thank you, John, but I only inquired because everything is set in place to begin such an act. We are both nude, I daresay that we are aroused, you could have begun the process on your own.”

 

“Absolutely not. Only if you are ready and willing to.”

 

Sherlock felt his eyes become watery at the soft utterance of John’s words. What had he done to deserve a man as kind and wonderful as John?

 

“I do not deserve your love, John.”

 

John moved to gather more water in his palm so he could wash the soap from Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock was waiting for John’s response, an agreement or...or words that would certainly end him.

 

“Rubbish, Sherlock. If you are not worthy of my love, then surely I am not worthy of yours.”

 

Sherlock’s laugh sounded more like a relieved breath.

 

“Rubbish.”

 

By the time they finished the bath, it was already night. The fog was being a particular pain that night and so, much to Sherlock’s dismay, he was unable to view the moon while they laid together. Every so often he would let out a cough and John brought him a cup of tea while he was in bed. Sherlock thought that John enjoyed caring for Sherlock, that mother henning was something he loved to do. Even Mrs. Hudson would have felt some jealousy towards John over his caretaking skills. He hoped that she was alright. Living in that manor was lonely in itself, he could only imagine how she felt living there on her own. Sherlock shook his head, she probably did not even think about him anymore. When he left, whatever she had left of him in her heart did too.

 

He finished the last sip of tea just as John made his way to the bed and pressed a kiss against his cheek.

 

“Your fever has broken, thankfully so. How do you feel?”

 

“I feel as if I am ready to retire.”

 

Sherlock noticed that John saw right through him, would he leave him be was the question. He let out a short sigh when he felt the covers rise and John’s warm body snuggled into his. He gave him the usual kisses goodnight, and said nothing more on Sherlock’s mood. Sherlock settled into the bed even more as he realized that this was going to be one of his bad nights. They hadn’t happened for so long, he truly thought that they were done with him. That he would be able to rest in peace, but he was wrong, it seemed. He thought of Mycroft, he thought of Mrs. Hudson, he thought of the man upstairs, he thought of John. The hardest feat tonight was trying not to break down in front of John altogether. He deserved his rest and not more of Sherlock’s crying and tears.

 

He choked on a sob that still let out a sound despite his efforts, and before he knew it, John was already holding him close and whispering, “It’ll be alright”, “You’ll be okay” which made his ability to withhold his tears become even more difficult. He did it, though. He didn’t how, but he did not cry, he did not sob. He was able to calm down, and all the bad thoughts in his mind gave way to John. A smiling John, a sweet John, a guardian John, a kind John, a John who was the love of his life.

 

John Watson. He kept him right.

 

“Thank you,” Was what he whispered to his sleeping companion after the storm had passed and the tears were kept at bay. He missed the way John smirked after he went to sleep himself.

 

\-----

 

“Tonight will be the night, John!”

 

John was munching away at his morning toast when Sherlock burst into the room, grinning like a madman and whirling about as gracefully as a cat.

 

“Whatever do you mean?”

 

Sherlock slammed his hands down on the table, causing John to start a bit.

 

“Tonight, my dear John, there will be a storm!”

 

John looked as if he wanted to understand, but failed, and Sherlock only shook his head.

 

“Do you recall our conversation three days ago? Of how we were to wake our dormant man upstairs?”

 

John nodded.

 

“You proposed that we use a bolt of lighting, and tonight, is when we shall be able to do so!”

 

“And how do you think we shall obtain such a force? My suggestion was not resolute, I am not sure if I spoke of something possible, yet you would indulge in my impossible theories?”

 

Sherlock’s eyes softened and he moved around the table to hold John’s hands.

 

“When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.”

 

John’s eyes darted from side-to-side, trying to understand. “Right.”

 

Sherlock released his hands and said, “Look at the clouds, John. They are grey but their hue is much darker, thus signaling that we are to experience a storm, perhaps the storm of the year. With thunder comes lighting and I have, while you were occupied down here, created a means of conducting the electricity into the body, which in turn will provide him with life!”

 

John pondered this for a moment and set the cup of tea he held down.

 

“Do you mean to tell me that he will wake tonight, should this experiment of yours work?”

 

“That is precisely what I mean to tell you.”

 

John could not help but smile at his words. Come nightfall, John would be able to see their efforts pay off. Their man would wake, finally. He grabbed Sherlock’s hands again and held them up to his mouth. His lips lightly brushed against his knuckles.

 

“I can hardly wait.”

 

\--------

 

It was safe to say that Sherlock and John were not ready for the severity of the storm. It began slow at first, to the point where it nearly rendered Sherlock hopeless. He thought he had misjudged the weather, that it was nothing more than the normal bout of London rain. Then John noticed, nearly an hour later, that the rain became louder as it fell, and the droplets were larger. Sherlock knew that rain from before, the same rain that fell the night John came to life, and not more than thirty minutes later they heard the boom of thunder that signaled how far the storm was. Sherlock had been counting the seconds in his head each time the thunder clapped, waiting for the lightning

 

John had expressed the need to retire to bed, and Sherlock was inclined to agree with him. When he moved to blow out the candle on his side of the bed, that’s when they both seen it. That flash of light that illuminated their entire room for not longer than a second before the darkness engulfed them both again.

 

“John, it has begun!”

 

He frowned when he heard his companion groan, unaware that John had begun to slumber. Sherlock hated to rouse him when he was tired but this was of the highest import. He made his way toward the stairs so he could open the windows, he had to make sure that the lightning found its way to the rods. This had to work, the creation had to wake up.

 

“Come along!”

 

He made his way upstairs and found the body lying on the cold metal table and reassured the body that he would not remain that way for long.

 

“Open the windows, John!”

 

Immediately, John dashed over to the window and threw it open. The air and rain beat harshly upon his features as soon as the window was let open. He was drenched without even stepping outside. Sherlock flew over to the body and set the rods in place.

 

“Move away from the window!”

 

John stepped to the side away from the window and ran over to Sherlock’s side, together they backed away from the table and watched as the lightning struck and the storm raged on.

 

“We must be patient, even we cannot rush nature.”

 

Faster than they could have anticipated, a bolt of lightning shot into the attic. As Sherlock had planned, the rods absorbed the electricity which was lead directly to the body with copper wire. However Sherlock had underestimated the sheer magnitude and the light that was emitted from the impact was blinding. Sparks flew and soon Sherlock was pulled to the floor with John covering him, his heartbeat so loud in his ears that he heard nothing else.

 

When Sherlock returned to the moment, he ignored John’s inquiry of his well being and darted to the window, bringing it closed with a bang.

 

Both were breathing hard as their wide eyes met. Though brief, returning to the sound of the rain beating against the panes seemed quiet compared to what had just happened

 

“Were we successful?”

 

Sherlock only swallowed and turned to face the body that still did not move. With slow and careful steps he walked over to it.

 

“We shall see, John.”


	20. Sebastian

John made his way over to Sherlock, who was standing over the body with a look of fearful curiosity. John watched with unease as Sherlock towered over the body, which still lay dormant and unmoving. It made very little sense, why had he not yet awoken?

 

“Sherlock, what has happened?”

 

“I am unsure; he shows no signs of waking.”

 

John came over to the metal table and examined the man who refused to live. His hair was chestnut and damp due to the rain that they had let in alongside the lightning.

 

The body was of a white pallor, but John imagined the skin would have a natural peach tone if blood were to fill the still empty cavities within. He could recount the night when he was sent to the cemetery to do what Sherlock had all that time ago. Seeing as how Moriarty would not want a man of neither his nor Sherlock’s build, he laboured to find body parts that would impress the madman, but not overpower the two of them were he to become violent. Were he alive, he would be the picture of health and considerably handsome. His features were rough, but complementary; John could picture those thin lips pulling up into a smile and found the image quite dashing. A likely ancestry would be German, or possibly even Roman going by the strong bridge of his nose.

 

Sherlock moved to touch his face. He was cold with no hint of blood rushing to his face. He had been sure that the electricity would be enough to shock the heart into starting. Would they need to do it again? Sherlock would have to wet him with water in order for it to work this time. Unless…

 

“What if the electricity still resides within the body, John?”

 

“Was that not the purpose of our doing this?”

 

“You misunderstand! What if the charge has been safely conducted into the body but we have yet to complete our task of reviving him?”

 

John crossed his arms and furrowed his brows.

 

Sherlock rolled up his sleeves and wiped a few wet curls from his forehead.

 

“Perhaps you were able to wake due to your shock being directly from the storm with no means of conduction. Our friend here does not have the privilege to follow in your footsteps. We must perform compressions of the heart upon him, John!”

 

“Meaning?”

 

Sherlock did not gift him with a response. He placed both hands on the cold chest and began to pump. John watched as Sherlock did this.

 

“How do you suppose this will work?”

 

“I do not, John, I am only experimenting with my knowledge of medicine and anatomy. Hopefully, we shall be able to start his heart.”

 

Sherlock paused, but then started again, keeping his pumps in a rhythm. They were not sure for how long Sherlock kept at it until the man that they were trying to revive opened his eyes, revealing them to be a startling shade of blue. He sucked in the air around him as if it were going to be his last breath. After a moment, he shot up, screaming as loud as his lungs could allow him albeit his voice hoarse and scratchy.. He grabbed Sherlock’s hands that were still resting upon his chest and threw him to the other side of the attic. Disoriented and confused, the man got off the table and began staggering around, knocking things to the ground either by stumbling into them or sweeping them off surfaces out of sheer rage. The room, which was still wet from the rain and cluttered by the past few weeks of work, now was the complete sight of destruction.

 

“Calm yourself!” John shouted, running over to subdue the creation when his target seemed to be set upon Sherlock who would be powerless to stop the onslaught of such anger. John threw his arms around the naked man’s body, locking his hold by gripping his own wrists to keep the arms from lashing out and causing any more harm to the lab, and most importantly, to Sherlock.

 

“Be. Calm.” John stated more brashly, firm.

 

Sherlock watched with wide eyes as the blood-curdling screams died down to whimpers. The man’s eyes darted around the lab and finally landed upon Sherlock. Sherlock rose to his feet, favouring his left wrist. It was not broken, as he was able to move it, but perhaps it was sprained, or bruised. He watched as John restrained the man, only letting go once he was sure that nothing else would happen.

 

“Are you hurt, Sherlock?”

 

There it was again. He would never understand how John was able to go from furious to tender when he talked to Sherlock. Once again, John was the one to save him from an attack. He was always the hero. Sherlock smiled and nodded.

 

“I am alright, John.”

 

“Show me your wrist.”

 

“I am quite fine, I assure you.”

 

John took Sherlock’s wrist and was not surprised when Sherlock winced even though his actions had been careful.

 

“He hurt you.”

 

“It is hardly his fault, he is afraid. These are new feelings, sensations, to him. He simply reacted poorly to his surroundings.”

 

John wore a face of anger and, because Sherlock could not afford anything happening to their creation, not when Moriarty was expected to return soon, he gripped John’s upper arm and forced him to meet his eyes.

 

“John, calm yourself. I have no broken bones and our task was successful. Our first priority is to tend to him, for we have laboured tirelessly to bring him to life.”

 

John wanted to tend to Sherlock, but the creation was of the highest importance at the moment, sprained wrist be damned. John turned to face their newest occupant of the flat with apprehension, in case he displayed the intent to attack one of them again. Sherlock had no chance of matching his strength, but John, however, could. John placed his hands in the air to prove that he was not the enemy. Similar as to how Sherlock interacted with John on the night they first met.

 

“Then you leave this to me,” He said to Sherlock, voice unyielding. His next words were to the new man, “My name is John. John Watson.”

 

John pointed to Sherlock, who cradled his injured wrist in his other hand and hoped that the man would not try to harm John.

 

“Him - his name is Sherlock Holmes.”

 

The man just stared at John and Sherlock sighed, “He has no comprehension of language. You were very much the same on the night of your awakening.”

 

Sherlock moved to stand beside John. With a softer tone he spoke, “It is alright. You have no reason to fear us. We mean you no harm.”

 

“How are we to get him to communicate?” John muttered to Sherlock.

 

“By teaching him; that must come at a later date.”

 

The man took several steps toward them and John stepped in front of Sherlock to protect him from anything that he might try. Both were surprised to see the creation extending his hand out to them. John turned his head to face Sherlock and Sherlock whispered in his ear, “I believe he is attempting a handshake.”

 

“Would he even know such a thing?”

 

“It is a possibility. You extended your arms, he is mirroring you. Perhaps he is a faster learner than I presumed.”

 

John turned his attention to the waiting man and slowly moved to grab the hand. His body tensed once their hands began to move. Sherlock let out a slight gasp. It was indeed a handshake. Was he attempting peace with John?

 

“Incredible”, Sherlock breathed.  

 

John himself seemed unsure of where to proceed. It was as if the man had not flung Sherlock across the room moments ago. The man detached his hand and moved back from them. Sherlock moved from behind his protector and stepped towards him.

 

“You are quite smart. Of course, I doubt that you shall learn faster than my John.”

 

He ignored the smug look on his face.

 

“You will follow us and we will clothe you, feed you, and find you a suitable spot to rest, unless you would prefer to remain here, in the nude, alone, and no doubt cold.”

 

The man looked over at John, as if he was looking for approval on his face. Sherlock tapped John on the back, signalling John to nod or in the very least give some reply.

 

“It is alright,” John provided with an exaggerated nod.

 

The man moved his head in a mirrored way, clearly mimicking John. With slow and careful steps, Sherlock approached the man and took his hand. Instantly the man resisted and John stepped in between the two of them. He took over Sherlock’s task and grabbed the man’s hand, to which there was no resistance. Sherlock noticed the change in behavior once John made contact. The three of them walked down the stairs and into the living room. John was the one who settled the man down on the sofa and stepped back to stand alongside Sherlock.

 

“You will remain here while I tend to Sherlock.” John spoke as if he were a teacher instructing a student. John doubted their spoken words were being understood. If he had to venture a guess as to why things were going fairly well now, he would say the demeanour of him and Sherlock were facilitating enough calmness for the man to feel the same or at the very least, safe.

 

Sherlock’s eyes remained fixed on him as John led him away. Once they were in their room, and John obtained the bandages, Sherlock began talking to him in a hushed tone.

 

“His behavior is odd, is it not?”

 

John’s brows furrowed as he wrapped Sherlock’s injured wrist.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Sherlock shook his head, unable to find the words for it.

 

“I am unsure. Why is it that he is friendlier with you than he is with me?”

 

“Are you certain?”

 

Sherlock looked down and saw that John was finished mending his wrist, he was only holding onto it for comfort now. He smiled and continued on with his thoughts. “Surely you witnessed this in the laboratory. He was hostile whenever I came into contact with him, but you, you are the exception it seems.”

 

John had an opinion on the matter; Sherlock saw the way his eyes darted up towards his own and then back to his wrist as quickly as they met his. Sherlock cocked his head.

 

“What say you, John?”

 

“I...I believe that he feels a sort of kinship with me, Sherlock.”

 

“How so?”

 

“Perhaps, and do correct me on my errors, but do you think that...he is aware of what I truly am?”

 

“Care to elaborate?”

 

John shrugged and stood up to take his seat on the bed next to Sherlock.

 

“I’m not sure that I can. He may not be able to tell you or myself apart, but there is a chance that he...knows. He could have seen the stitches on my wrist when I moved to shake his hand. Though he may not understand the skill of speaking, he may be able to understand the tones of our voice. Or it could just be that we look upon him differently. You are human but him and I are...not completely so, perhaps he can tell that somehow.  Ah, I do not know what I am saying, ignore me.”

 

Sherlock would have liked to. He saw the way John’s toned softened, sounding quite sad for a moment. If Sherlock had to guess, John wanted that bond of kinship between himself and their man downstairs. It disheartened Sherlock to see John’s look of want and longing, perhaps he had felt just as Sherlock has for all those years. Maybe, on some level, John was lonely.

 

“Let us drop this subject for now. We still have a man downstairs that requires our aid and we mustn't keep him waiting a moment longer.”

 

Sherlock rose and moved to his wardrobe to retrieve an old robe he had no use for. Then held his hand out for John. John smiled at him and graciously accepted his invitation and they both headed downstairs. They found their creation staring at them with fascination and fear. Sherlock walked over to him with the robe in hand, but of course, the man did not even make to reach out. After several attempts at trying to wrap him in some sort of clothing, Sherlock realized that there was no way for him to overcome the barrier. He turned to look at John and said, “Do you mind?”

 

John shook his head and took the robe from him. He had wanted to let Sherlock try to establish a bond but none seemed forthcoming.

 

Sherlock watched as John bent down in front of the man and held the green silk robe up.

 

“Peace. Be at peace. My friend only wishes to cover your body. You will not be harmed in anyway.”

John slid the robe onto him with the slightest movements. He was only ever that gentle with him, much the same way John was with Sherlock. John finished tying the sash around his waist, a smile directed at the creation, while Sherlock watched with arms wrapped around himself.

 

“I am John,” He put a hand to his own chest and repeated, “John.” Then he extended his hand behind him to gesture at Sherlock, “He is Sherlock. Sherlock.” Though introductions had already been made, he thought it best to repeat them once again now that the creature was in a much more relaxed state. “Sherlock means you no harm,” John added, trying to add appropriate gestures but not getting them quite right.

 

“We must find you a suitable name, I think it only proper,” Sherlock piped in. He walked over to the bookshelf and grabbed the first book he saw; a book on important figures in Christianity. He had found John’s name from the Bible and there seemed no easier method. He flipped the book open and made his way back to the two. He crouched down with John and read from the pages of it, fighting every impulse in his body not to grin when he felt John’s hand rest on his thigh.

 

“We shall find you a suitable name, do not fret.” Sherlock began reciting names from the book.

 

“Patrick?”

 

No response. He had remembered when the same issue arose with John.

 

“Michael?”

 

“No? What about Isaac?”

 

To each name there was no response, and Sherlock began scrutinizing the book for whatever he could find. It wasn’t until John halted his page-flipping and selected a name - Sebastian. The name of a saint who became a martyr for his faith, for his people. Sherlock chuckled at the irony of the namesake the man was to have.

 

“Sebastian?” John was the one to ask, carefully putting his hand to the creature’s chest. Sherlock was not sure if it was John’s utterance of the name or if he truly did like the sound of it, but the creature’s mouth formed something akin to a smile, and then he nodded. This caused John to form a smile of his own and look to Sherlock, hoping that he was somehow enjoying this. Sherlock closed the book and looked at their creation with a smirk on his face.

 

“Sebastian will be your name?”

 

“Do you think you are able to recite it for us?” John asked, tapping the man’s chest again and repeating the name, “You are Sebastian.” He looked at the creature expectantly.

 

Sherlock turned his gaze to John. He was already attempting to get him to speak?

 

“S-Seb...bas…”

 

Sherlock leaned forward, fascinated that this new man was quite the quick learner, indeed.

 

“You have nearly gotten it!” John exclaimed.

 

“Sebastian.” The smile he wore was clearly due in part to John sporting one of his own. It was clear imitation. Is that how he was able to learn so quickly? Had he been picking up speech patterns from the way they both spoke? This was eerily wonderful.

 

“I think that this enough for tonight, John, we have had a long day and you had remarked upon your fatigue earlier. Shall we retire?”

 

John had the look of a man faced with a difficult position but eventually nodded and rose from his spot on the floor. He extended his hand to Sherlock, who accepted it graciously. Before they went to their room, Sherlock turned around and said, “John will fetch you a blanket and there is a pillow resting behind you that you may use.”

 

Sebastian seemed alarmed as he saw John leave his field of sight. Sherlock shushed him and moved to take his hand again, though fearful that Sebastian would attempt to retaliate. He stayed his hand this time.

 

“John will return with your blanket. Do not worry.”

 

John hurried back with the good quilt that Mrs. Hudson had bought for Sherlock when he was younger. Sentimental reasons were why he had kept it for all this time. Sherlock urged Sebastian to lay down and he did so reluctantly. John spread the blanket over him and calmed the restless man.

 

“You must sleep, Sebastian.”

 

“He might require a demonstration, John.”

 

Letting out a sigh, John laid down on the floor, a feeling of nostalgia surging through him as his head made contact with the cold wood.

 

“You must close your eyes,” John shut his eyes and Sherlock saw that Sebastian mimicked him. Incredible. “And after you must wait for your body to become heavy and drown out all other noise,” He instructed, settling his arms at his sides and relaxing his body as best he could.

 

Sebastian’s eyes opened once again only to take in the position, and then they were closed and remained that way. Sherlock was sure that John had successfully put Sebastian to sleep. No matter how recently the man had found life, his body was bound to be fatigued and exhausted now that his pulse was calm.

 

John slowly and quietly got up and began walking to their room, with Sherlock in tow. John was the first to settle into the bed and Sherlock crawled underneath the covers right after. He nestled himself next to John and smiled when John wrapped a protective arm around him.

 

“He is finally awake,” John muttered.

 

“Yes. After all this time, it does not even feel real.”

 

“I feel the same.”

 

Sherlock did not forget the conversation they had prior to naming Sebastian, and the revelations that had come to him. John had felt lonely, no doubt because he was the only one of his kind. That was Sherlock’s fault, he had not considered this when he was creating him. He knew what it felt like to be alone but to force John to overcome such an emotion too was a true error. He kissed John on the shoulder and felt one being returned upon his head. Just as he closed his eyes, they heard the door being opened to reveal none other than Sebastian. They both sat up and watched as the man spread his blanket on the floor, placed his pillow on top, and lay down. He stared at the both of them with those alarming blue eyes and, without uttering a word, closed his eyes and went to sleep. John and Sherlock flashed puzzled looks at one another and slowly sank back into the bed. They assumed their positions again and Sherlock whispered, “I do hope this does not become a habit.”

 

John only laughed quietly and replied, “Mind your step tomorrow.”


	21. Falling Out

_ June 12th _

_A second day has now passed after Sebastian’s awakening. It may be strange to say, since he and I are only months apart in gaining life, that I feel almost like a father to him. On that first night he was more inclined to my touch and that has only become more defined. He is not averse to Sherlock’s presence but I find him following me through the home or with his gaze even when that is not required of him. I do not mind this at all. It may seem unfair to Sherlock but I believe it is understood that I am better suited to helping Sebastian learn this new world than he._

_I feel quite strange seeing him move about, unsure of his steps and unaware of his own body, still unable to use his voice to speak proper words. I am aware that my beginnings were much like this as, unlike a child, I have not forgotten those first few days of my own life. His eyes are never still, always looking around even at things he has already seen. Every few steps, I see him pausing and looking at his feet, toes moving to feel the surface of the floor underfoot. There is constant fascination written in his features and this innocence is quite endearing. Sherlock raised me to be a companion and so I believe I matured quite quickly into who I have become. Now I see Sebastian as more of a child and I cannot imagine him growing so fast. When I remember that he is meant for Moriarty, I want to hide him away and protect him from the evils that man is capable of._

_I have very much I still wish to teach him and there is less than a fortnight left until we must part. I cannot imagine he will grow into a hardened individual capable of what Moriarty desires of him in time, which causes a deep ache in my chest. To not only lose the only other of my kind in the world, but to thrust him into a life of peril and sin, I am doing Sebastian the greatest wrong for which I will never be able to repent. I can only hope to show him happiness and kindness during these next few days that may carry him through the trials that come his way._

_And possibly, if God above allows, we will meet again._

_\---------_

_ June 18th _

_Sebastian has made much progress during these past few days. Unlike the mind of a child, Sebastian has learnt quickly how to read and write, though his penmanship is still erratic. He is able to converse with us with a limited vocabulary that grows by the day. Like I when I first began to read, Sebastian has become obsessed with books and he consumes them with the same vigour I did. His voice is firm and strong and through the imitation of Sherlock’s cadence, has an aristocratic quality. In a better attire, I can see Sebastian walking amongst the wealthy without looking out of place._

_As before, Sebastian and I are still very close. Sherlock, without the mental strain of the past few weeks, has been able to take some much needed time for himself to recover. This situation is suited to all of us what with Sebastian preferring me and Sherlock behaving differently towards Sebastian than he does towards me. Sebastian has confided in me that Sherlock seems at times aloof and abrasive with his words but I explain that that is just simply his way. I do not tell him that they are qualities he could come to love with time because there is none. Only a sparse number of days are between us and Moriarty’s arrival._

_The thought is a wretched one as I have become quite attached to Sebastian. Sherlock is my love and my heart will be forever his, but Sebastian is family to me like Sherlock cannot be. Much the same way I could never be equal to Sherlock’s older brother. Some sense of loneliness in me has been temporarily banished by Sebastian’s presence and I know the loss of it will be near unbearable._

_Sebastian still retains the innocence of a child. This both makes me glad and deeply sorrowful because I know that the loving home Sherlock and I have created has fostered Sebastian’s bright outlook but that it is not well suited to the company of Moriarty. The difference will be a shock to Sebastian and I cannot fathom how confused and abandoned he will feel when that time comes. Perhaps my trepidation and guilt has become more obvious to Sebastian because I can see him looking at me as though he realizes something is amiss. I do not have the heart to tell him though. I dread the day that he will finally see what the future holds for him._

_\---------_

_ June 20th _

_All throughout this time, the moments where Sherlock and I can be alone have dwindled. Not only does Sebastian demand my attention more often, I as well do not deny him for I feel he is owed that much. He does not sleep for too long at a time but has no qualms in coming into our room and rousing me from sleep. This has become such an often occurrence that I have taken to sleeping outside the room so that Sherlock will not be disturbed._

_Sebastian desires that I read to him or answer burning questions that he formulates a thousand at a time. He is curious and has a brilliant mind much like his creator, and I only wish that a stronger bond could have been formed between Sebastian and Sherlock. Now with only a few days left, I doubt that is possible. Sebastian does try to engage with Sherlock, directing questions to him if I do not look like I hold the answers. Sherlock provides them when he is so inclined but, on more than one occasion, Sherlock has turned away with naught but a curt response._

_Such actions coming from the one I love make me feel quite guilty as I believe I must have had a hand in bringing about this behaviour. My departure from our bedroom, the abundance of time I spend at Sebastian’s side, all of these may have contributed to Sherlock’s cold demeanour. I must endeavour to clear the air because I cannot stand to think that Sherlock may be feeling lonely or hurt because of me. Only, I am not sure if he will understand that I will not be rectifying the changes made to our relationship for Sebastian’s sake._

_Towards Sebastian, I feel a great sense of debt. For the sake of our survival and the maintenance of our happiness, Sebastian was created as an offering to Moriarty. He will be subjected to a life I cannot imagine, made to do deeds that no one as innocent and kind as he is should do, while Sherlock and I continue living our lives. Sometimes I wonder how I can ever live in happiness knowing that Sebastian, my only kin, is paying the price for it. However, since I cannot see any other way around this that does not involve the demise of all three of us, I have been doing my best to give Sebastian as best a life I can. If a minute longer of reading makes him happier, I will do it, if sleeping near him will make him happier, I will do it, and if being available to him at all times will make him happier, I will gladly make it be so._

_I can only hope that Sherlock has been able to see and understands the reasoning behind my actions. He is the most important person to me and I do not wish for our love to be tainted by this - by sacrificing someone as undeserving of such treatment as Sebastian. If I cannot eradicate this outcome, then the least I can do is try to diminish it by giving Sebastian a good life the best ways I know how._

_The one thing I fear most is that I will lose Sherlock’s love but surely that is not possible._

_\--------_

_ June 22nd _

_Sherlock and I have had a disagreement. Such matters do occur at times but now he is ignoring me and I cannot honestly say I would like to engage in conversation with him either. I had hoped he could understand my reasons for treating Sebastian the way I do but he does not._

_I have been devoting my waking moments to Sebastian, even leaving the flat to buy him freshly baked bread or a sweet confection. He delights in these spoils and the radiant smile upon his features I will forever etch onto my heart. He has the same fascination towards fire as I do and many nights we spend gazing upon the flames of the fireplace, trading questions and telling stories, the latter mostly done by me. As I’ve said before, Sebastian is both my only family and someone I must abandon to a cruel life._

_This morning Sebastian directed a question towards Sherlock, who had become less and less sociable towards him and has taken to remaining in his study for hours at a time. Sherlock responded quite harshly, his tone nearly acidic, shocking Sebastian as well as myself. I could see the embarrassment written upon Sebastian’s features and I could not condone such behaviour on Sherlock’s part. Sherlock retreated to his study and I followed him with a desire to rectify his actions._

_I hate raising my voice at Sherlock but as we began to speak, I could see his blatant disregard for the sacrifice we were making of Sebastian, and the anger was uncontainable. His words revolved around us, the growing distance I was creating, the focusing of my attention unto another, but no thoughts were spared for Sebastian’s fate. I was disgusted by this, that Sherlock’s only concern was our partnership, that he was accusing me of disloyalty or loving another. How could he say such things? My love for Sherlock is incomparable, a part of my very being. Even treating Sebastian as I do now is partly for the benefit of our love so that we might live on with less guilt._

_Is my love for him so fragile, so precarious, that he can doubt me so? I feel as though I have done nothing but love him since I was created and know not how to feel any differently towards him. My love for him was born and will die with me, never wavering and always true, and I believed that Sherlock knew this. For such a short period of time focusing my attention upon another to throw my feelings for him into doubt, I am greatly offended._

_Nevertheless, I cannot dwell so long upon this anger or Sebastian’s last day with us will be tarnished. If he is a timely man, and I have no doubt he is, Moriarty will be arriving tomorrow for Sebastian. I cannot predict how the exchange will go, all I am sure of is that Sebastian’s heart will be broken and a part of me will die with it. I wish so deeply that he was not made for that life, that he could stay with us and become an upright gentleman alongside both Sherlock and I. Such happy times would have been ahead of us and I believe an empty silhouette where Sebastian should be will always be in my sight. He is my son, my brother, and if he should ever seek my demise in the future, I will not fight him. For sending Sebastian’s innocence to death, I would gladly pay the ultimate price._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a bit short, but the wonderful Chanolay did an excellent job with these journal entries, and so the next chapter will be a little angsty!


	22. Farewell

_ “Honestly, Sherlock, even you knew that this could not last.”  _

 

_ Sherlock could not stand the way John stared at him. His face was so full of hate, anger. What had he done to make John detest him so?  _

 

_ “I do not understand! You were the one to reassure me of our relationship.”  _

 

_ “Pity does wonders, does it not?”  _

 

_ Sherlock shook his head, this was not the John that he knew, not the one that loved him so dearly that even he could not express his thoughts clearly. This was not the John that he knew. The way John crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at him with brows furrowed, wearing a frown that would make anyone cower.  _

 

_ “Surely you do not mean this! Please tell me that I have not lost your love!”  _

 

_ It was at that moment that John bent down held Sherlock’s face in his hands.  _

 

_ “Oh Sherlock, there can be no love lost where none existed.”  _

  
  


Sherlock’s eyes shot open. He was in his room, the sun was rising, signalling that the dreaded night was ending and so was that nightmare. John had not loved him, and it was the most terrifying thing he had ever dreamt thus far. He hated Sherlock, told him that their love never existed, and he did not know how to handle that. He pressed his fingers to the rims of his eyes and there was the familiar moisture that he was accustomed to. He tried not to cry, he hated crying, especially when John was the reason. They fought yesterday, and over nothing, now that Sherlock thought about it. He was jealous of Sebastian, he disliked the fact that John spent so much time with him. John slept in the living area because of him, he read to him each night, and bought him sweets and bread, it infuriated Sherlock at first, but then it rendered him sad and useless. Sebastian did not like him, why would he? The only person who could possibly love him for who he was was John and that was only because he had not given the man the chance to meet anyone else. Sebastian was leaving today, and of course John would not be attentive of Sherlock because he would want Sebastian to be as happy as possible before Moriarty came for him. 

 

Sherlock did not hate Sebastian, contrary to what John or the man himself must think. He did not want him to be delivered into the hands of Moriarty anymore than John, but who would believe him? Sebastian no doubt thought him to be the grouch of the house, and John was still mad at him for the fight they had. Sherlock sighed. 

 

He decided spend Sebastian’s last day with them because it would only upset John more if he choose to spend the day holed up in his laboratory and that was something that Sherlock did not want.  

 

He sat up and wiped his eyes so that John would not spend the better part of the day fretting over him, despite himself. He threw his legs over the bed and stood up. Before he left the room, he threw on his robe and looked at the bed. He hated seeing it so empty, but after today, maybe he would have his John back. He left the room and found Sebastian sitting on the floor and John watching him from the sofa. When Sebastian clapped eyes on Sherlock, he immediately averted his gaze and turned to face John. John ran a hand down his features, signalling that he had only just woken up, and Sherlock suspected that Sebastian had something do with it. John let out a yawn and looked over at Sherlock. He didn’t look much happier to see him but he nudged Sebastian with his foot and said, “Be polite.” 

 

Sebastian looked back at Sherlock and gave a sheepish smile. 

 

“Good Morning, Sherlock.” 

 

Usually Sherlock would roll his eyes and mutter a response back, but this time he returned the smile and said, “Good morning, Sebastian.” 

 

Even John was a bit surprised at that. He cleared his throat and stood from his spot on the sofa, Sherlock saw the way the blanket draped over the side of the couch and the pillow that used to belong to Sebastian now in his possession. Where did Sebastian sleep then? The floor, or that uncomfortable armchair that even Sherlock did not want to doze in. 

 

“Right, breakfast anyone? Sebastian, are you hungry?” 

 

Sebastian nodded, “I would like beans and toast.” 

 

John smiled and watched Sebastian get up. “I believe we can make that happen.” 

 

Sherlock watched as the two made their way over to the kitchen and lingered for a moment. Was John still angry with him? Did Sebastian hate him now? He would not be surprised if the two of them did, he treated them so poorly and they did not deserve his cold demeanour. He missed John, and he was sure that the man knew that but he was not going to apologize because he had done nothing wrong. John was hurt, just the same as Sherlock was. They fought because Sherlock was insecure, jealous about the relationship John had with Sebastian because Sebastian loved John and John returned those feelings. They were both not entirely of this world so they understood each other in a way that Sherlock never would and that terrified him. He loved John more than he loved himself and although he knew that John would never leave him, there persisted a fear of John realizing that Sherlock was nothing compared to what awaited him in the world. 

 

There was a place at the table for him that either John or Sebastian had set. Sherlock was confused yet relieved all at once - that meant John did, despite himself, care. He took his seat with hesitation and found that the only other person residing at the table was Sebastian. The man played with the utensils on the table, then started fidgeting with his hands, and did everything in order to not make eye contact with Sherlock. Sherlock could not help but feel poorly because Sebastian did not mean him any harm, he did not have the choice of being made, and he did not have the choice of being given away by the day’s end. Sherlock sighed, he had made a mess of things as he always had. Sebastian did not care much for his presence on the night he was created - if his sprained wrist was evidence of that - but as his mind grew, he came to love Sherlock, albeit not as much as he did John, but he cared for him nonetheless. And how had Sherlock treated him? He ignored him, embarrassed him by shouting at him. He treated Sebastian much like how others treated him for majority of his life, and it made him sick to think of that. He did not know what would come of the future but for now, he knew that Sebastian was not capable of harboring any ill will towards John or himself, and he had not done anything to intentionally cause them harm. Sherlock sighed, and folded his hands on the table. 

 

“Is there something wrong, Sebastian?” 

 

Sebastian shook his head and continued to twiddle his thumbs. It was understandable that he was reluctant to speak to him, let alone ask him any more questions after what happened. Sherlock retained the patience of a saint and asked him once more. Hearing the tone of Sherlock’s voice, which was, for Sebastian, uncharacteristically gentle, he decided to open up. 

 

“I found a photograph last night, it was of you and a man that I have never seen. I only wanted to know who that might be.” His eyes finally found Sherlock’s after that statement was uttered. 

 

He was talking about the photo of Mycroft and himself. How it found its way to living room was beyond him, he might have placed it there on one of his bad nights where sleep eluded him, or when his bedroom was in the living area to keep John comfort. However it ended up there, Sebastian had found it, and seeing as how John did not inform him, he was saving it for Sherlock specifically. 

 

“That is my brother, Mycroft.” 

 

“Your brother?” 

 

Sherlock nodded. “He was seven years older than me, he worked for the British government as well.” 

 

“You talk of him as if he is away.” 

 

Sherlock wore a sad smile at Sebastian’s words. Naive he was. 

 

“He is away, metaphorically speaking. As for the location, I know nothing of where he might reside today. He passed away some time ago.” 

 

Sherlock felt a warmth surge through his body at Sebastian’s genuine sadness at hearing of Mycroft’s death. He wondered how different the funeral would have gone if the guests wore the same sympathetic expression the man wore now rather than the veils and rain droplets that posed as tears and grief. He thanked Sebastian silently. 

 

“No wonder you are so melancholic, you are sad about your brother’s death.” This was the justification for Sherlock’s rude behavior. Sebastian thought that it had to do with Mycroft’s death. 

 

Sherlock looked into the kitchen to find that John was already staring at him, pleading with him not to be rude, to not tell the truth just this once. No one would want to leave a home thinking that they were never wanted in the first place. 

 

Sherlock sighed, “Perhaps you are right, Sebastian.” 

 

In the corner of his eye, he saw John’s mouth curve into a small smile as he set the food on the tray to be delivered. Sherlock and Sebastian were still sharing eye contact when John emerged from the kitchen. He set the tray down on the table and to Sherlock’s surprise, John made him a plate. He looked up into his eyes and saw softness in them. He still loved him, Sherlock thought pleasantly. John still loved him. 

 

“You are poor at keeping your health, I have taken the liberty of feeding you today.” Sherlock could have sworn that he saw the playful smile that he had ached for. Was John beginning to forgive him for his heinous behavior yesterday? Could he see the Sherlock he fell in love with and not the Sherlock that had lived in the flat as of late? Sherlock certainly hoped so, he truly did. 

 

“I appreciate the sentiment, John. Truly.” 

 

John hummed and took his own seat at the table, helping himself to the food. Sherlock watched as John helped Sebastian with his tea, and showed him how to cut the toast so that his hands would not get messy. He remembered when John took the place of Sebastian, and he the place of John. He was so proud of him that words could not truly explain how immensely he admired John. He began just as Sebastian had, if not with the same awakening, but to see him now, teaching and being so patient and kind. Cupid himself could not bring love as great as his. They spent the first few minutes of breakfast simply eating and nothing more, it was Sebastian that broke the silence. 

 

“Is the food to your liking, Sherlock?” 

 

He wanted conversation.

 

“John’s skill surpasses my own, Sebastian.” 

 

“I enjoy anything that he makes, even if it is nothing more than toast with jam.” 

 

That got a chuckle out of John and Sherlock. John set his fork down and placed a hand on Sebastian’s back. 

 

“If there is time today, maybe you could sample Sherlock’s cooking?” 

 

“I would not want to impose. Sherlock must have more important tasks than cooking for me.” 

 

Sherlock looked over at John and smiled. 

 

“Nonsense, later on today, if I am able, I will see if there is anything for me to cook.” 

 

Sebastian smiled and looked at John for his approval, which he gave. He seemed almost excited to be able to have Sherlock cook for him, seeing as how John doted on him for the both of them. A pang of guilt rang within Sherlock, but he was quickly able to dismiss it because he needed to do what John had been trying to do for days now and make what little time he had left with them count. Sebastian took a sip of his tea and then his brows furrowed. 

 

“John, what do you mean by ‘if there is time’? Are we going somewhere?” 

 

The two men exchanged glances and John began to explain without telling him the specifics. 

 

“Sebastian...later today there will be a man come to pick you up, he goes by the name of Moriarty. We will send you off with him.” 

 

Sebastian’s eyes widened and John knew that he would not be able to carry on with what he was saying, so Sherlock took over the task of explanation. 

 

“Why are you not coming?” 

 

“Sebastian, do calm yourself. It won’t be for long, you will forget us in time.” 

 

“But I do not want to go with him! I want to stay here, I like being here!” Sebastian was becoming angry at their insistence that he must go with Moriarty. John merely looked anguished at his reaction. 

 

“Do not fret, we promise that no harm shall come to you, you will be cared for.” 

 

“But he is not you!” Sebastian rose from his chair, spilling the tea from his cup. 

 

John stood up as well. 

 

“Sebastian, please!” 

 

“What time will he be arriving?” Sebastian’s tone softened. 

 

Sherlock shrugged and John answered, “Even we do not know. There is a chance he may change his mind and never show up.” 

 

Sherlock knew that John was saying these things to feel better about sending Sebastian away like this, but it had to be done. Prison was not a place where two men of their standing should be. Where was Mycroft when he needed him? He would have been able to handle this, he would have arranged for Moriarty to disappear, or if they were to be convicted, Mycroft would have found a way to free them. He could not fathom the way John looked on at Sebastian’s reaction to leaving. They had become so attached, and that was the one thing that Sherlock had feared while creating Sebastian.

 

Sebastian stormed off into the bathing room, slamming the door behind him. Sherlock and John stared at each other - who was going to clean up the mess, and who was going to take care of Sebastian? 

 

“I will see to this mess, John. You tend to Sebastian, you are the more pleasant face, after all.” 

 

John nodded and walked over to the bathing room, Sherlock could hear John’s soft utterances of Sebastian’s name as he knelt down to clean the tea. Sherlock could not help but feel badly for the man. To be told that he was going to be leaving, and without his consent at that. He probably thought that he had found his home, that he would be with John and himself forever, only to be very wrong. 

 

“Sebastian, we have time before he arrives. Come from the room and perhaps Sherlock could play you a song on his violin.” 

 

Sherlock overheard John offering his services and smiled to himself. Any way to placate the distressed man. Sherlock had not played that thing for ages, since Mycroft died to be exact. John, after he learned of Mycroft’s existence, had stumbled upon the violin case and asked Sherlock about it. Reluctant at first, he finally told John of the origins of the instrument and how he simply lost the passion to play it. He did not miss the way John looked as if he wanted Sherlock to play it but let him be. John never asked him again about the violin or his brother, and Sherlock was glad for it. 

 

He finished cleaning the spill and moved to join John at the bathroom door. John was now sat in front of the door with his ear to the door, listening to whatever sounds came from the other side. Sherlock took his own seat, cross-legged, next to John and watched as his lover refused to abandon Sebastian. 

 

“Sebastian, come out.” 

 

Sherlock heard the distinct sound of a sniffle, and realized that Sebastian had upset himself to the point of tears. He had never seen or heard the man cry until today. 

 

“No!” 

 

John leaned back against the wall, and turned to look at Sherlock. They had not said much to each other since the argument, and even the scene at breakfast was more for Sebastian’s happiness, but that was all gone now. Not a soul in the flat was happy. John looked tired, he had bags under his eyes, and they seemed dark, or was it the appearance of his eyes sinking in that made him look exhausted? He had had a rough time of it - a quarrel with his lover, his only other friend, who was both his son and his brother, distraught at the thought of having to leave Baker Street. Sherlock had only added to his problems, he had only begun to realize. The reason for John’s doting was because John knew where Sebastian was going to end up, who he was going to be given to, and it was equal parts guilt and actual affection for Sebastian. That dream Sherlock had had scared him because he realized that, were it ever to come true, it would be his fault. He felt as if he had lost John’s love, while John had felt the same about Sherlock. Not wanting to listen to Sebastian’s pitiful cries for a moment longer, Sherlock placed his hand on John’s and watched those weary eyes meet his. He gave him a small smile, just enough to reassure John, and rose from his spot on the floor to retrieve his violin. 

 

It felt heavy, foreign in his hands, as if he had never held it before. It was dusty, the black leather of the case making the grey dust more apparent. Mycroft had bought it for him. He had told him that he would be able to  _ ‘feel without uttering a word’. _ His first concert was for Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson, playing lullabies and whatever she requested. As he got older, he began composing songs, and he paid little attention at first, but he had been reliably informed by Mrs. Hudson one morning that the songs he played were often so sad that she found her eyes watering while delivering his breakfast. Sherlock did not hear what was so woeful about his music. When Mycroft died, he could not find the heart to even gaze in the case’s direction. 

 

He took his seat next to John and took the violin out of its case. Still chestnut, still beautiful, still his. Without words, he rested the violin underneath his chin and began playing. He was creating a new song as he played. He began the tune with a slow, somber tone, it resembled the mood of the room perfectly. Then, the tone began to lighten a bit, as if conveying to the three of them that everything would be alright, this sorrow would not last forever. He heard Sebastian’s sniffles soften, and then stop altogether. He was not sure how long he had been playing, but he did know that he missed it terribly, and that he never wanted to stop but they could not sit on the floor and listen to him play forever, they did not have forever. The thought nearly reflected in Sherlock’s playing, but he caught himself, and ended the song on a note that showed that it would hurt, but they would hurt together. Sherlock set the violin down and waited for the reactions. He felt John’s fingers twine around his, and when he turned to face him, he saw the same smile he gave being directed towards him. He was thanking him with a soft expression, no more of that hardness that he displayed yesterday. Sherlock wished that it had never happened, that the ice from their storm had finally melted and that they would be able to love each other again. No jealousy, no guilt, just pure, passionate love. The doorknob twisted and Sherlock knew that their love would always remind them of the guilt of this very day. 

 

Sebastian emerged from the bathroom and greeted them with reddened eyes. Sherlock nearly grimaced at how much he was reminded of himself. Sebastian only stared at the two of them and then took a seat next to John. He rested his hand on the shorter man’s shoulder, while John held Sherlock’s hand. 

 

“How long until I must leave?” Sebastian asked in his shaky voice. 

 

“It does not matter, Sebastian. For now, let us have this.” John breathed into the man’s hair. Sherlock followed Sebastian’s lead and rested his head on John’s other shoulder, careful to rest the violin on his lap so that it would not fall to the floor. They would sit like that, Sherlock guessed. They would sit this way until the bell rang and they would see Sebastian no longer. Sherlock looked up and for the briefest moment to see John’s nose crinkle and his eyes water. Sherlock sighed, it was so very John to be strong even in a situation where it was perfectly acceptable to not be. If John wanted to suffer in silence, then it was on his terms, but Sherlock did not want him to believe that he was truly alone. John would have, and had done. the same for him.    
  


~~~~~~~~

 

When the bell rang, the first one to wake was Sherlock. They had all been lulled to sleep by the weight of the sadness that they were forced to carry. John had always asked Sherlock to join in and sit with Sebastian and himself. What a pity this was the only time that they could all do that. The bell rang again and then John was awake. He looked around before his eyes focused on Sherlock. Sherlock loathed that he would be the one to tell him that his time with Sebastian was up. 

 

“John, he is here.” 

 

John’s frown broke Sherlock’s heart but John was quick to turn away and begin rousing Sebastian from sleep. 

 

“Sebastian, it is time.” 

 

Sherlock did not miss the way Sebastian’s hands tightened around John’s arm at the statement. Would he go willingly, or was this merely the beginning of an even bigger tantrum? They would only find out when they answered the door. Sherlock began making his way to open it, out of the corner of his eye, he saw John and Sebastian standing up and John attempting to clean Sebastian so that Moriarty would not see the tell-tale signs of tears or anything to indicate the bad reaction to the news. Sherlock opened the door and his gaze immediately landed on the black eyes of none other than Moriarty, as well as the man who betrayed not only Sherlock, but Mycroft as well, Thomas Banville. Thomas only stared at Sherlock, and he reveled in the fact that even this small act was able to make Mr. Banville uncomfortable. He was the cause of all of this, and he knew. 

 

“Where is he?” Sherlock cringed at the sound of Moriarty’s voice. He looked back to see John walking over with Sebastian in tow, who looked like he was trying his hardest not to cry again. John was petting his hand to soothe him and stopped in front of the two men that threatened to ruin their lives. For a moment, not a word was uttered, Moriarty’s critical gaze was unleashed upon Sebastian. He looked him over to make sure that his man had no deformities, that he looked better than John and Sherlock, that Sebastian looked every bit intimidating. Moriarty smiled and placed a hand on Sebastian’s arm. 

 

“You are a splendid specimen. You will do. He will do,” He directed his last words at Sherlock.

 

He tugged on Sebastian’s arm to make him walk over the threshold of the flat and join him at his side. 

 

“I am impressed, I believed that two months would complicate matters but you degenerates will do anything to spare your lives, even piece together a man just so that I would not alert the authorities.” 

 

Sherlock spoke in a harsh tone, “Prison does not suit either of us, I’m sure that you would be the one to know what it is like.” 

 

Moriarty’s smile faltered and reverted back to that cold stare that shook even the deepest parts of Sherlock and John. He turned his back, hand still firmly grasping Sebastian’s arm and began walking over to the carriage. Thomas stayed back and had the look as if he were to begin speaking. 

 

“Sir Banville, whatever you intend to speak about is of little importance. It is because of you that that man was created, and it is because of you that we must now live our lives with even more fear than we had began with. You are a traitor in my eyes. You have betrayed me and killed my brother once more. I do not wish to ever lay eyes on you again.” 

 

Sherlock slammed the door in his face and turned to face John who looked both shocked and upset at the whole ordeal. 

 

“He will come back, Sherlock. People like him will always come back. He only wanted Sebastian to toy with us, you do realize?” John said through gritted teeth.

 

He was angry. Sherlock only sighed and wrapped his arms around John. 

 

“We will deal with him in time, for now, let us focus on us.” 

 

“Sebastian will be unhappy, Moriarty will not care for him, Sherlock. He will not understand that we did not raise him to be evil. He does not know the world beyond us. They will make him a monster.” 

 

“He will be fine.” Sherlock nuzzled into John’s hair, but the smaller man gently removed himself from his hold. 

 

“I do not deserved to be coddled. We have ruined a good man.” 

 

“John…” 

 

“I am going to retire to our bed. Should you care to join me, I will not turn you away.”

 

John had already started to walk away from Sherlock before he could say a word. John paused in the middle of the sitting room and let out a sigh. 

 

“It will be so quiet now.” And then he walked away. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for being so patient, as we are both very busy and do try our hardest to get the chapters out.


	23. Aftermath

Sherlock smelled bacon. It had to be bacon, it was one of the foods that he missed the most since leaving the manor. Why did he smell bacon? He did not recall going to the shops that week. Sherlock licked his lips, the bacon was such a foreign smell to him at this point since they had eaten more ham than there were pigs at the market. The fried pork smelt heavenly to him, and as he expected, his stomach began growling. His eyes were still closed when the aroma woke him. He could already feel the sunlight on his back, the first sunny day in some time. The bacon was close, he could taste the greasy, flavorful, slice of pork on his tongue. He opened his eyes and the sight he was met with was not the bacon that he had yearned for, it was something much more pleasant. 

 

It was John. 

 

He was smiling down at Sherlock, with a tray of food. Sherlock’s eyes immediately honed in on the three succulent cuts of bacon laid on its own plate. John laughed and set the tray down on the vacant side of their bed. Without uttering a word, he pulled Sherlock in for their good morning kiss and as usual, Sherlock had trouble with ending it. When they did pull away, John’s hand remained on Sherlock’s cheek, and it made the brunet positively giddy.

 

“I am glad that you do not possess the skills of Medusa. I would have surely been made into stone.” 

 

Sherlock’s smile grew. Such flattery so early in the morning! 

 

“Are those words rehearsed, or do you rattle them off from the top of your head?” 

 

John’s response was a smirk and another short kiss. “I’ve made breakfast.” 

 

“So I see.” 

 

Sherlock sat up and moved the tray to rest upon his lap. The tea was hot, the eggs looked delicious, and the bread was fried and buttery, just the way Sherlock liked it. This was the most he had ever eaten since they had been here. Where did John get all of this? 

 

“You were in quite a state of slumber. I took it upon myself to do the shopping, you deserve your rest.” 

 

“Nonsense,” Sherlock paused to help himself to the bacon, “You deserve all the rest, my dear John. You have been through much these past days. I have already convalesced.” 

 

John smiled and stroked his face once more. Sherlock offered him a bite of the bacon, since it was obvious that John sacrificed his own breakfast to make Sherlock’s exquisite one. John graciously accepted the offer and as they both sat and ate, Sherlock stared at John intensely. He still thought of Sebastian, that much was clear. John’s attitude had not been very positive as of late, Sherlock knew it was because he was hurting. He was upset to have given Sebastian away to a man who would not care for him nearly as much as John had. It was understandable, but why wouldn’t  he communicate his troubles to Sherlock? He was there when Sebastian was sent away, he was there when John slept for hours after because it seemed the best outlet for his pain. He was there when John’s eyes watered with tears desperate to be shed. John did not need to suffer in silence, Sherlock was fully prepared to help him through it. 

 

“John…” Said man’s face looked impossibly sad as he moved to grab another slice of bacon. He was eating and Sherlock was glad. John had not done much of that lately. 

 

“You know, after I left you in such a peaceful state, I made my way to the living area and nearly called for Sebastian to sit at the table.” John’s lips quirked into a wry smirk and he took another bite of the bacon. He looked far off, as if he forgot that he was speaking to Sherlock. Immediately, Sherlock set his slice of bacon down and wiped his hands on the cloth that John had brought with the tray. It was his turn to grab John’s face in his hands, to feel the soft skin, and rub his cheeks with the pad of his thumb. 

 

“John, my John, when will you see that it is alright to mourn? Why must you give me leeway during my black moods, but be so harsh on yourself when you are upset?” 

 

John made no move to respond to Sherlock’s sudden interrogation. Sherlock seized the opportunity to continue his speech. 

 

“Sebastian weighs on your mind heavily, I can see the way you struggle whenever you assume that my attention is not toward you. You are very mistaken then, if you believe that, even for a moment, my eyes drift anywhere that you are not. You miss him, and it is fine to miss him, I miss my brother some nights. And you may think me the sentimental fool for it but that is of no matter. Please, John, do not suffer alone, allow me a bit of the pain.” Sherlock could not believe that he had said all of that. Him of all people, the most inept socially and emotionally, telling another how to handle his feelings. He did not want to see John so angry, so hurt. They created Sebastian to prevent these issues. 

 

John let out a breath, Sherlock released his face and waited patiently for John to speak. 

 

“I suppose that I learned from you.” 

 

“How so?” 

 

“You do very much the same when your mind is in turmoil. Ever since we have been together there have always been moments where you seemed...melancholic, specifically during moments where you think me inattentive.” 

 

Sherlock’s mouth hung slightly. It was true, every word. He did not want John to see him so weak, disgustingly emotional. At the manor it happened accidentally, the ride had made him weary, he had not expected to see Mycroft’s grave so suddenly. His mind never stopped racing, and at moments, it simply became too much for him to bear. John had seen it all and never thought to speak to him about it. What hopeless sods they were. 

 

“It seems we both require practice with affairs of the heart, does it not?” 

 

There was Sherlock’s horrid attempt at humor, and John’s snort was the response. They truly were terrible. John reached for Sherlock’s tea and took a sip. 

 

“Has it occurred to you that you neglected to make your own cup?” 

 

John smiled and took another sip. “I had only focused preparing your meal before you awoke. The pot is full, I will gladly pour you another once I am finished.” 

 

Sherlock laughed and began breaking the yolk of the egg. “You, my dear Watson, are an idiot.” 

 

The sound of John’s laughter could brighten even the darkest day. 

 

~~~~~~~~

 

“Let us take a walk.” John said suddenly as they both lie in bed for the third consecutive day. 

 

“Where to?” 

 

“I have no desire for a specific destination, I only care to walk. We have not properly moved in some time.” 

 

Sherlock rolled over and pressed his nose into John’s neck. He could never tire of his scent, of his warmth, John was more addictive than any drug he had taken. John’s hand stroked the bare skin of Sherlock’s arm as the other pressed the lightest of kisses to his neck. John chuckled at the ticklish sensation Sherlock created on his sensitive skin. 

 

“Must we move?” 

 

John sighed, “The thought seems dreadful, but we must leave at some point.” 

 

Sherlock huffed and sat up, despite the fact that John’s arms were still wrapped around his waist. He shed his nightwear and began to dress. When he was in his undergarments, John propped his head on his elbow and watched with a raised eyebrow and a playful smirk as Sherlock changed. Sherlock turned to face him and tossed his clothes to him. 

 

“Dress yourself, Watson.” 

 

“Only after you are done.” 

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and buttoned his shirt and was pleased to see John do the same. He rose from the bed and put his pants on and waited for Sherlock to assist him with the buttons on his shirt. When Sherlock was done, he kissed John. 

 

“Come along, John. The weather is pleasant and I should like to take full advantage.” 

 

“Yes, yes, I am coming.” 

 

He put his waistcoat on and followed his lover out the door. Sherlock was quite shocked that John would even suggest something like this. He had been solemn since Sebastian’s leaving, and at times, Sherlock found himself worrying about John’s mental state. He would become despondent for an hour or two, then he would be full of energy and lavish Sherlock in undying love, and then tell Sherlock of his weariness and desire to sleep. It reminded him much of the time after his brother died. Today was one of his better days, but there persisted that sensation that John’s mood would shift and he would become sorrowful and wish for the two of them to sleep. So if John desired to walk, then Sherlock would walk until their feet ached. 

 

“I am ready, Sherlock.” 

 

Sherlock opened the door and with a genial grin and said, “After you.” 

 

When the both of them were out of the flat, John took Sherlock’s arm in his and the two began their walk through the London Streets. Sherlock’s eyes traveled over to his companion and he could not help but smile at how enraptured John appeared while they walked the crowded, narrow streets. He had not been out the flat much, and on the few times that he was it was only for a short time. This was the first time John had actually  _ seen  _ London and all its citizens without any interruptions. Sherlock thought he looked incredibly handsome as they walked, but they could not do anything more than link arms. 

 

“Do you have anywhere you wish to go while we are out?” 

 

John mused for a moment before shaking his head. 

 

“I have already made the necessary stops while you slept. If you should like to stop off somewhere I will not mind.” 

 

“I have nowhere else I’d rather be.” Sherlock ended his sentence with an affectionate smile. No one would hate them for it. The smile was harmless. 

 

They had been walking for close to twenty minutes, yet the roads seemed to never end, the crowds of people never tired, Sherlock felt as if they had been roaming the same spot, stuck in time as the world around them continued to progress. Then he found himself wishing it. He turned to John, since the man had become quiet. His face was grim. Sherlock knew that this walk would not halt his thoughts forever, that saddened expression tore at Sherlock’s heart. He felt at fault for he was the one who had created Sebastian, he was the reason why Moriarty appeared in their lives. He had become the object of John’s gloom once again and could not prevent the waves of self-hatred from washing through him. Would he have made Sebastian had Moriarty not demanded it? Would John even think to ask him for a sibling, a child, a friend? Sherlock elected to remove those thoughts from his head. He cannot change the past, but he can endeavor to control his future. 

 

“John, are you alright?” 

 

John’s mouth twitched into a ghost of a smile as he nodded. “I am well, Sherlock. You mustn’t fuss over me.” 

 

Sherlock wanted to leave him in peace, but he did not want John to despair in such a public setting. He did not want the world to know of John’s pain. Spotting a café in the distance, Sherlock pulled John in its direction. They took their seats at one of the outside tables far to the corner where they could not be bothered except by the waiter. Sherlock drummed his fingers against the table while John sat and stared at nothing. Minutes passed before John’s brows furrowed and his eyes flicked over to Sherlock’s. 

 

“What are we doing here?” 

 

Sherlock only smiled and said, “I am a bit peckish, I believe we can take a slight pause in our walk and eat.” John said nothing. Sherlock took the time to signal the waiter who reminded him so much of the last one he had met all that time ago. This waiter had black hair, and smouldering hazel eyes. His smile was crooked, but his voice was soft, and his demeanor calm and patient. Sherlock gripped his jacket at the sight of him. 

 

“What will we be having today, gentlemen?” 

 

Sherlock, answering for the both of them, “Just tea, thank you.” The waiter smiled and walked away. John was admiring the waiter long after he left. He then turned to Sherlock and questioned his bleak order. 

 

“Why should I dine if I do not hunger?” Was Sherlock’s simple response. John seemed satisfied and leant back in the chair, waiting for their tea. When the waiter finally arrived, he placed the tea, along with a few biscuits on a plate. 

 

“Only because this chap looks a bit peckish.” He motioned toward John and walked away. 

 

“Do not laugh, Holmes.” Was John’s terse response to Sherlock’s impending laughter. “He worries for you, John. Just as I do, I might add.” 

 

Sherlock managed to grin rather than laugh. He was glad to see John’s face soften at his statement. They both helped themselves to the tea. Sherlock sipped his and surveyed the area. “Do you know, I have not been to a cafe in some years.” 

 

John swallowed his tea. “Oh?” 

 

“I have quite fond memories of the last one I had been to.” 

 

John looked down at the reddish liquid, and then back at Sherlock. “Might I ask what those memories entail?” 

 

Sherlock’s mouth quirked and he swirled around the tea in his cup. “Perhaps later, for now I wish to return to the flat.” 

 

“So soon? Is that it for our walk?” 

 

Sherlock’s low chuckle made John shiver. 

 

“If you wish it, our walk shall last until our legs give out.” 

 

John set his cup down and sat up. 

 

“Until sundown should suffice. I rather like my legs, and yours.” 

 

Sherlock’s laugh was louder this time, and this caused John to chuckle too. Sherlock signaled the waiter and paid him before setting off with John, not forgetting to link arms with him. Any intimacy they were able to have in public he would gladly take part in and cherish every moment he spent with John, arms interlocked, both smiling as they talked about nothing in particular.

 

~~~~~~~

 

They walked, and walked until the sun began to set and the people walked in one direction instead of the various locations they traveled to. The street was bathed in the golden purple hues of the sunset, and John had made them stop and watch the sun make way for the moon. How he loved his precious moon. They stopped in a park and laid upon the grass and stared into the dark blue sky with stars that littered it. 

 

“That is my brother’s star.” Sherlock pointed toward the biggest star in the sky. John smiled. 

 

“Why does this star belong to your brother?” 

 

Sherlock shook his head and hoped that John would not be able to see the red creeping on his cheek, even in the dark. 

 

“You will find me quite childish if I tell you.” 

 

“There are many things I find childish about you, my love. I should think this would surprise me none.” 

 

Sherlock beamed and smacked John playfully in the arm. He could not help but smile wider when he felt John’s fingers intertwine with his own. They were alone in the park, they would not be caught, they were safe. Sherlock relented, and began telling John about Mycroft’s Star. 

 

“My brother, may he rest in peace, was a very wide man.” 

 

John’s brows furrowed and he turned to get a better look at Sherlock, to see if the man was joking. Sherlock smiled, but he was completely serious. 

 

“I made it my life’s work to remind him of his rounded stomach each time we came into contact. I think that I may have been the reason that his weight became so unstable. His suits never fit properly, they were either too tight, or too loose. I nearly pitied him.” 

 

“Do you mean to tell me you named a star after your brother simply because he was fat?” 

 

Sherlock laughed, “I am horrid, aren’t I?” 

 

Sherlock was glad that he was finally able to talk about Mycroft at length without sobbing between each sentence. He was sure that this was the reason for John’s constant inquiry regarding Mycroft. 

 

“Quite.” 

 

Sherlock took the time to look at John, his face growing softer, his body relaxing to a point that he had never felt before.

 

“You two would have got on well.” 

 

“Tell me of him.” 

 

“It would have taken time and effort, my brother was very protective of me, but I think he would come to respect you greatly and be utterly thankful that I have found such a dear friend.” 

 

“Was he aware? Of your...inclinations, I mean.” 

 

“He was.” 

 

Sherlock knew that John was wary of approaching this topic, but he would tell him, he deserved that much. 

 

“Did he approve?” 

 

“He was not personally affected by my preferences. He worried about my future, however. He did not want me to be thrown in prison because of it, he wanted me to repress my feelings, to find a wife, to become a father. I fear I have disappointed him.” 

 

“You speak fondly of him, I am sure that you are no disappointment to him.” 

 

Sherlock smiled weakly. They were still and silent for a few moments before Sherlock pointed up towards the star again. 

 

“That is his star,” his finger trailed over to another, more prominent star, “And this one is yours.” 

 

John could barely conceal his astonishment. “Mine?” 

 

“He was my light in the sense that he shined in my darkest hours. He was my guide. You, John, you are my conductor of light. You are my means of surviving, I look to your light to bring me fortitude, to lead me. You are warm and kind, and as the conductor of light, you are unbeatable.” 

 

Sherlock nearly jumped on John to cover him in kisses as he saw the completely awestruck expression upon his face. 

 

“I love you, Sherlock.” 

 

“And I you, John.” 

 

The two ended their time in the park and caught a hansom cab back to their flat. When they returned, the two of them were dizzy with love, they could not stop kissing and holding one another, never parting for longer than a minute. This was the love that only writers could create, Sherlock thought as John kissed him against the fireplace. Sherlock’s hand rested on the mantlepiece as John crushed his lips against Sherlock’s. Paper. There was a slip of paper under his hand. How did it get there? The two of them had not reverted to such amorous feelings for one another that they left notes of affection around the flat. Was this planted? How long ago? 

 

With reluctance, Sherlock stopped John from kissing him and told him that he would join him in their bed. John kissed him one last time and walked to their bedroom. When he was sure that John was away, he opened the letter. 

 

_ Inspector Lestrade is none too pleased!  _ _  
_ _                               -M  _

 

No.

 

He couldn’t have.. 

 

“Sherlock! Come, let’s retire.” 

 

“I am coming!” 

 

He folded the letter up and placed it back on the mantlepiece. He joined John in bed after changing haphazardly into his nightwear. He realized that John sensed that something was off with his love, the arm wrapped around his waist tightened and in his ear he breathed, “What is the matter?” 

 

They have been found out. Moriarty went against his word and had informed the Scotland Yard. Everything was the matter. Why could he not be happy for even a day? He rolled over so that he could face John, and with tears in his eyes he whispered, “I miss him, John.” A lie. He could not let on how bone deep the horror was affecting him. John was already going through so much turmoil, Sherlock despised the thought of adding to it.

 

John kissed him all over his face and on his neck. He stroked his cheek and replied, “I miss him too.” 

 

Sherlock was not referring to Sebastian, but John was. What would Sherlock tell him? How would John react? There was only one way to handle this. In the morning, he would go, alone, to Detective Inspector Lestrade. 


	24. Holiday

The next morning, Sherlock woke to find John wrapped tightly around him, even more so than was usual. Sherlock sighed, it had everything to do with their conversation before they slept, the discovery that he made after their beautiful night together. Moriarty had gone against his word and informed Detective Inspector Lestrade of their relationship - him of all people! The one person in the whole of Scotland Yard that had actually built a rapport with him. It was all ruined now, they were caught, Sebastian had become their martyr for all the wrong reasons, and John had no idea as to what they were in for. He wanted to get an early start, before John was awake and coherent and ready to follow Sherlock to the ends of the earth. Slowly, he began to untangle himself from John’s limbs and leave the bed without even causing so much as a stir from his slumbering love. When he was off the bed, Sherlock smiled, and he knew he would hate himself for it later, but he could not resist giving John’s cheek a gentle touch. He stared at John for a few minutes before the man pawed at his face and rolled over. It could very well be their last sleep together if the worst were to come to fruition.

 

“I’ll return, hopefully before you wake.”

 

He threw his clothes on and gave John one last glance before walking out of the flat. It felt odd to be alone, especially outdoors. He had become so used to John’s presence, that he had forgotten what is was like to be by himself. He smiled at the thought, to finally be able to forget the isolation and the loneliness, it felt like heaven. How long would the feeling last? This might be the last time he could ever see John asleep in their bed, so peaceful, so soft. Then again, Sherlock did not have to do this, he did not have to leave the embrace of his love. He could have laid there with him until the coppers came storming in and arrested the both of them. No, what was he thinking? He had to do this, it would be better to keep this as discreet as they possibly could before all of England knew about it. He owed John that much.

 

John would want to know where he’d been. When he finally returns to Baker Street, John will be sat at the table, with breakfast for the two of them, sipping a cup of tea and glaring at Sherlock. He would press him, ask him over and over where he’d gone, and why he was not brought along. Sherlock would have to lie, say that he had went for the morning paper, but then he would have to actually return with the morning paper.

 

So engrossed in his thoughts, he nearly missed the entrance to Scotland Yard. He stopped in front of the window and peeked inside. Just as the law never sleeps, neither did the policemen. He sighed and steeled himself before going inside of the building. He was met with several policemen walking alongside him, having discussions about their recent arrests and their personal lives. One of them had just had their first child, Sherlock overheard. There were miscellaneous drunks and thieves in some of the prison cells. Two of the criminals were in the cell together. One of them was passed out, the bottle lazily gripped in his hand, and the other, a thief judging by the way he checked his cell mate's sack, was disappointed that the old drunk had nothing of value.

 

“Freak.” Sherlock turned to see none other than Sally Donovan staring at him with the meanest scowl she could muster. She was without her...suitor? Husband? Lover?

 

“Ms. Donovan,” Sherlock said dismissively. “Without your Anderson I see.”

 

At that her scowl disappeared and reverted to a harmless frown. “Damned git got himself locked up again.”

 

“Drinking again?”

 

“I told him not to do it. He’s a right arse when he’s pissed.”

 

“Do what?”

 

“Causing a public disturbance that’s what! Need I explain more to you?”

 

Sherlock smirked and shook his head. “Not at all.”

 

She smiled to herself as well. “How’ve you been? No more shagging corpses? That John fellow left you yet?”

 

Sherlock’s smirk disappeared and Sally’s face turned smug at the victory. Anderson was escorted over to her by a policeman and she took her leave with him. Sherlock could faintly hear the bickering as they left the building. He sniffed and walked towards the Inspector’s desk. Thankfully, the man was already there and helping himself to a meager sandwich and a cup of tea. Sherlock cleared his throat and stared at the grey-haired cop until his attention was caught. After the third throat clearing Lestrade looked up at him with a mouth full of sandwich. His eyes widened at the sight of Sherlock and immediately he tried to swallow the food in his mouth, washing it down with tea.

 

“Mr. Holmes! I-I mean…” He took another drink of his tea and swallowed, “Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock smiled nervously and fiddled with his hands. Lestrade finished his tea and cleared his desk of any crumbs from his meal. He stood up to shake Sherlock’s hand, and the smile that the Inspector wore made Sherlock even more uneasy. Was he acting this way so that Sherlock would catch on that he was aware of his private details? Why was he being so hospitable towards, and Sherlock hated to even be associated with the word, a criminal?

 

“Please, sit.”

 

Sherlock sank into the wooden chair and pushed down the feeling of being reduced to the clients that the Inspector had to deal with every day. Lestrade folded his hands on the table and stared at Sherlock with that loathsome smile on. What did he want from Sherlock? Did he want him to crack and tell him everything? Tell him about Mycroft, tell him about John, about Sebastian, and how that madman Moriarty had come to know him? He would not lower himself to such a shameful display in front of a man he barely knew.

 

“What brings you to the Yard today, and, if you don’t mind my asking, where is that fellow Mr…”

 

“Watson.”

 

“Right! He is not with you today?”

 

“Today it shall only be you and I, Detective Inspector. Mr. Watson is asleep at our flat.”

 

Lestrade nodded and the two sat in uncomfortable silence. Lestrade was the one to break the silence once more.

 

“Pardon me, but you still have not answered my question. Are you here to file a complaint?”

 

Sherlock pondered for a moment. He should file a complaint, report harassment from professor Moriarty, but then that would result in him having to provide the Yard with every sordid detail of his life, and something told him that the police would no doubt find him guilty rather than the professor. Sherlock shook his head. How would he get Lestrade to tell him without asking outright?

 

“No, nothing pressing I’m afraid. I thought that I’d stop off and check on you. The flat is dreadfully boring seeing as how John is still asleep.”

 

“Oh? Does he sleep in often?”

 

“No, the man does enjoy his sleep, however. Today may be a day where I find a way to while away the time.”

 

“I’m...sorry?”

 

“As I said before it is quite alright.”

 

More awkward silence. How was he going to do this?

 

“I appreciate the sentiment, Mr. Holmes, but if there is nothing else…”

 

“Hold on! Tell me, have you encountered any.... exciting clients as of late?”

 

Lestrade looked as if he was breaking some sort of rule telling Sherlock about anybody who visited the station. Sherlock sat back, Lestrade was definitely thinking of the most peculiar visits to tell Sherlock about.

 

“Well, there was a man. Come here to file a theft. Some street urchin nicked his wallet.”

 

“And why does he resonate in your brain, Lestrade?”

 

“I don’t quite know. He was Irish, God, can’t mistake that accent. He looked to be in his...I don’t know...early fifties?”

 

“Does this man have a name?” It was not Moriarty, seeing as how the man was no more than a few years older than Sherlock himself. What Irishman caught Lestrade’s eye?

 

“Er, Banville, Thomas Banville, I believe.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes nearly popped from his socket. Thomas Banville was here? What business could he possibly have at the yard? He was in cahoots with Moriarty, his presence on the day of Sebastian’s departure made that evident. Was this planned all along? Banville would report Sherlock to the police, and Moriarty would get the two of them to create Sebastian knowing that their doing so would do nothing to stop their punishment? What evil, evil men! He faked a report of theft to tell the Yard of why he was really there.

 

“And was this the whole of his business? Nothing more?”

 

Lestrade mused this over before responding. “Do you know what? He talked to Donovan and Anderson. I had them detained here after the mishap in front of your flat. They went on for a while before he left. Haven’t seen him since, but those two continue to grace the Yard with their presence.”

 

Sherlock wanted to believe him. Lestrade truly seemed ignorant as to the actual reason why Sherlock came. Moriarty was toying with him. He was sadistic so why wouldn’t he torment Sherlock with the one thing that scared him the most? He had Sebastian, and nearly ruined Sherlock and John’s relationship to have him. He broke John’s heart, and that Sherlock could not forgive. Moriarty was a parasite; he wouldn’t stop until he’s drained everything from Sherlock. What would he do next? How would he win this game? How could Sherlock possibly defeat him?

 

“Is this all? You’ll pardon me for inquiring about this man with such fervor. He is a family friend and I only want the best for him. To hear that he has been subject to London’s Underworld in such a way is very upsetting. I shall take my leave now, if that is alright.”

 

“Not a problem at all, have good day, Mr. Holmes.”

 

“Lestrade, please, do call me Sherlock.”

 

With that he left the building. He heard Sally and Anderson bickering still. They were still here? Why did had they not yet left? Sherlock sighed, they would give him a hard time but he had to question them on Moriarty’s whereabouts. He walked over to them and was not surprised to see the two stiffen. He raised his hands to show that he meant no harm.

 

“You’ll be glad to hear that my friend is not with me.”

 

“We ain’t scared of him.” Anderson said. Sally nodded.

 

“Really? If you don’t mind waiting, then I can fetch him.”

 

Sally placed a hand on Anderson’s chest. “Not here. You’ve only just got out.”

 

“I would listen to her. She seems the smarter one.”

 

“Shut it, freak! What do you want?”

 

“Information, if you will oblige me.”

 

The two pondered it and Sally nodded. Anderson was incapacitated from his hangover. He wasn’t going to be of much help to him. She stood straight, and showed Sherlock that she was not a force to be reckoned with, and he believed her.

 

“My friend, Inspector Lestrade, informed me of your talk with Sir Thomas Banville.”

 

“Why does this concern you?”

 

Sherlock placed a hand on his chest and mustered the politest smile he could. “He is a family friend.”

 

Sally crossed her arms, expression incredulous, why would she trust him? Sherlock didn’t know how to prove it to her, but he would get her to speak regardless. Perhaps that simpleton Anderson would tell him of things that she would not.

 

“He’s told us about you. Your brother’s Mycroft Holmes, yeah?”

 

“Yes, quite right.”

 

“He told us all about you.”

 

Sherlock swallowed. “Such as?”

 

Sally lost her nerve then, she looked over at her ailing lover and then back at Sherlock. “I’m sorry about your brother.”

 

“That is unexpected...thank you.”

 

“I’ve not forgotten my dislike either.”

 

“Of course not.”

 

Sherlock’s false smirk turned sympathetic at Sally’s condolences. She let out a breath and said, “Right. Banville wrote us a letter a few days back. Says he’s with a man named Moriarty in Switzerland, on some sort of business.”

 

Moriarty was going to Switzerland? Why there of all places? Did he need a quiet spot to groom Sebastian to be the killer that he wanted him to be?

 

“Freak? Is that it? We done here?”

 

Sherlock, dazed from the information, nodded. “Yes Ms. Donovan, our business concludes here.”

 

She stared at him for a moment, trying to get a sense of what it was like in that funny little head of his no doubt. She sniffed and held her shawl tighter to her body. With a pat on Anderson’s chest she motioned for them to leave. She helped the man walk seeing as how he was just coming off of his intoxication, and needed proper rest. Several times Anderson looked back and each time Sally directed his face forward and they bickered some more. An odd relationship, Sherlock thought, but they seemed to care for each other. He himself started his walk back to Baker Street. John would be up by now and was probably wondering where Sherlock had gone.

 

When he returned, he opened the door to find John, just as he expected, sitting at the table with two plates of food and reading the paper. When their eyes met, Sherlock was waiting for John to be cross with him. But there was something about John that prevented him from being angry at Sherlock unless he truly had done something wrong. John smiled and set his paper down.

 

“Where have you been, Mr. Holmes? And do not tell me you were out to fetch the paper.”

 

Sherlock chuckled and took out the paper he bought on the way to the flat. “You grow smarter every day.”

 

He tossed the paper to the side of the door and took his coat off to hang on the rack before he joined John at the table. They shared a kiss before Sherlock took his seat adjacent and looked down at the food that John had cooked for him.

 

“I’m afraid the food has gone cold. When I woke you had already gone and I had no knowledge as to where you went.”

 

“Nonsense, it is still edible.”

 

John nodded and took another sip of his tea. His food had already been eaten. Had he waited for Sherlock? It was no matter, Sherlock was away for nearly an hour, he was hungry and therefore could not wait. He hoped that John would not notice the distracted look he wore. He watched John read the paper and took short sips from his tea. Every so often, he would see John’s eyes peer over the paper and look at his. John knew. Perhaps not the exact details but it was clear that the man sensed something had gone awry. They barely ate in silence. It would only be a matter of time before John set his paper down and started to speak. And right on cue his lips parted with an intake of breath.

 

“Sherlock.”

 

“Yes, John?”

 

“Where exactly were you this morning? It is unlike you to be away from the flat this early, save for when you go to the shops, but you’ve returned with naught but the morning paper. What is the matter?”

 

“Nothing, John. My mind would not allow me a moment’s rest. I chose to take a walk, seeing as how I did not want to disturb your peaceful sleep. I am sorry if I caused you any unease, John. That was not my intention.”

 

John looked unsure, like he was skeptical of Sherlock, but for now he settled with grinning and placing a hand on Sherlock’s. He feared that John saw past his pitiful excuse, he always did, but he’d rather him believe that he succumbed to his racing mind rather than take a trip to Scotland Yard to discover the truth of Moriarty’s, what he now knows to be, lie. Moriarty wouldn’t let them be, they would have to stop him before he got to them instead. This was a dangerous game that they were playing, but this was the only way to stop that psychopath. He wanted to tell John, he planned on telling him everything, but not now. He wouldn’t be able to stand it if they fought about this. For now, he would have to keep John in the dark, and he would not enjoy it for a moment.

 

“John, how would you feel about going on holiday?”

 

John’s brows furrowed. “Holiday?”

 

“We’ve had a rough time here at Baker Street, and I do not wish to be at the manor quite yet. Would you agree to leaving the country with me?”

 

“Where would we go?”

 

“Switzerland.”

 

“You said that rather quickly. Has this been a constant thought?”

 

“An idea that had only just come to me, in fact. I’ve always fancied traveling to Switzerland. The sun shines twice as brightly there than here in gloomy England and the grass is green and lovely. You would have the most splendid of times John. We can be away from this place for a short time. Just imagine how happy that would make us.”

 

“I am not sure about this, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock could not go through with this alone. He needed John to be there with him. He grabbed both of John’s hands and stared directly into his steely eyes.

 

“John, please. We will come back, we will not be gone long. Only for a month or so, or however long you desire. You forget that my family comes from an immense lineage of wealth.”

 

Sherlock hoped that John would agree.


	25. Reprise

_“What business have you in Switzerland, Sherlock?”_

 

_“Oh, John, I have just told you! It is not business; it is a holiday!”_

 

Sherlock loaded up the rest of their luggage in the carriage of the cart. John stood beside him and watched with a look of apprehension as he prepared for their journey to Switzerland. It had been days since Sherlock sprung that rather random question on him after being gone the whole morning and returning with little more than a newspaper and a kiss. Sherlock tossed the luggage to the driver with a ferocity that he had never seen. What demon had possessed his love?

 

_“How soon do you plan for us to be off?”_

 

_“As soon as we are able to, my dear John.”_

 

Sherlock opened the door for the carriage and held his hand out for John. “Come along.”

 

_“Why have you hesitations? It’ll do us both good to be rid of the filthy London air.”_

 

_“I like the filthy London air, Sherlock.”_

 

When they were both inside of the carriage, the driver immediately set off and John stared out the window forlornly at the sight of his dear Baker Street growing smaller and smaller behind them. It would be cold and empty, and for what reason John had not a clue. Sherlock grabbed his hand, and though both men wore gloves, the intimacy was there. Sherlock offered a smile and John returned it.

 

_“Why must you be so stubborn! I wish you would trust me, John.”_

 

_“I do. I absolutely do. I trust you enough to follow you to Switzerland but you must tell me why we are making this trip. I have not so many years on this earth as you, but I am no infant either. Sherlock Holmes go on holiday? Rubbish.”_

 

Sherlock had laughed at that, and was glad to hear John finally consent to come with him. He wondered though, what would have taken place had he refused to journey to Switzerland with him. Would Sherlock have stolen away in the middle of the night? Or would he wear that pout that he was keen on wearing while preparing the carriage? It was too late to deal with the what ifs; he was here with Sherlock now.

 

Sherlock kissed him shortly after their talk, and darted up the stairs to begin packing. Of course they were unable to leave that day, there were preparations to be made, inns to be located. Sherlock expected everything to fall into place when they arrived and John had no intention of stopping him. They spent that night as normal, laid up in bed, limbs tangled and as close together as humanly possible. John had taken to sleeping shirtless, the air had become a bit thicker since summer was approaching, Sherlock did not mind it.

 

_“John?”_

 

_“Yes, Sherlock?”_

 

_“Are you asleep?”_

 

_John sighed, “Not anymore, Sherlock.”_

 

_“Sorry.”_

 

_“What is it?”_

 

Now Sherlock was rubbing his thumb against John’s hand. He had not let go since they entered the carriage. They were gone from Baker Street now and John did not know the buildings they passed. He wished that Sherlock would change his mind and give up whatever goose chase he was taking them on so they could return to Baker Street. He did not belong anywhere other than their flat - Moriarty had made that evidently clear.

 

_“Are you truly fit to travel with me?”_

 

_John opened one eye. “What are you implying?”_

 

_“I do not mean to come across as rude, but...you do not know a great many people John. By that I mean, you have not truly been in a place populated with many other people. You have never slept in an inn, and I want to be sure that you will be alright while we are there. I would hate to bring about more unhappiness for you.”_

 

To be honest, John had not even thought of that. He was used to being around Sherlock every hour of the day, and, before his departure, Sebastian. Sherlock was right in his inquiry. Would he be able to be in such an open space? Sure he hailed from London, which was a densely populated area, but he had not been subject to its crowds for very long. As long as he had Sherlock, he supposed, he would be able to get by.

 

He sighed as they rode on the carriage, thinking back on that night, which prompted Sherlock’s attention.

 

“Are you well, John?”

 

“I am.”

 

“We are to take the train at Victoria Station, and hopefully we will be there before tomorrow.”

 

John gave a poor excuse of a smile and Sherlock frowned. “I do hate to see you so troubled. This was not my intention.”

 

John shook his head. “It is not you, Sherlock, never. I am merely homesick, that is all.”

 

“I will take you on your word, but should you ever feel need to talk to me, I am ready to listen.”

 

John chuckled. “You’re beginning to sound like me now.”

 

\----------

 

Sherlock had bought them first-class tickets. They were in a secluded area of the train, the other passengers were in the back, either busying themselves with a book, the morning paper, or chatting amongst themselves about current events. Sherlock was staring at John with a curious expression. This was his first time on a train, his first time ever being out of London too. It would take sometime before they got to Switzerland. John had his arms crossed and was staring out the window, watching everything pass them by. Sherlock felt dreadful for bringing John like this. John knew that Sherlock was hiding a key element from him, but he chose to follow him, as he always did.

 

“John?”

 

John did not turn to face Sherlock, but he did respond with a grunt.

 

“Are you enjoying the ride?”

 

John unfolded his arms and shrugged. “I suppose.”

 

“Are you hungry? Thirsty? There’s a dining cart on this---”

 

“I am fine, love.” John smiled at him.

 

Sherlock sighed and said, “You are making me uneasy, John. I admit you have been less than quiet and it is very uncharacteristic.”

 

“I am sorry, Sherlock. You’ll pardon me, I suppose this whole ordeal does not sit well with me. I do not wish to speak on this anymore for fear I will cause a disagreement between us both. I do not wish for there to be any bad blood between us, I think we have had our fair share of it.”

 

“My dear Watson, I would prefer it if you would voice your opinions. You have been far too silent for my liking. And I am sure you are aware to what I am referring to.”

 

Sherlock immediately regretted speaking of Sebastian. It was not so long ago that the mention or implication of him could be easily addressed. John missed him terribly, and Sherlock found himself at odds regarding his absence. He could admit that there was a wholeness to their home with Sebastian, and it was not that he was not whole with John, there was not a word to describe the level of love and friendship that Sherlock had with John. With Sebastian, however, perhaps it was at how happy John was when he was with the two of them. The very thought of seeing John happy was enough for Sherlock. He had the most dazzling of smiles. No such expression was worn on the man’s face in this instance. John sank into the chair and his eyes looked heavy and darker than normal.

 

“Sherlock,” John swallowed hard and he sniffed harshly, “I would prefer to not engage in such disruptive activity in a public area. I would like for you to respect my wishes.”

 

Sherlock’s mouth parted slightly but John, beating him to it, said, “Please.”

 

His voice cracked, and Sherlock picked up the paper that he had bought at the station. John’s pleading voice wrenched at Sherlock’s soul and he never wished to hear that desperate tone or the soft crack of his voice. Sherlock had found a page in the crime section that interested him and began reading it. He had not reached the second paragraph of the story before John whispered, “What are you reading?”

 

“The Case of the Abominable Bride.”

 

“Is it any good?” He sounded exhausted and Sherlock bit his lip.

 

“Very interesting.” John dropped the conversation and after a few minutes, asked, “Might I read it with you?”

 

Sherlock smiled and moved over so that John could fit on the seat with him. They both settled into the seat and lowered the paper so that any passerby would not be able to see the two holding hands. Sherlock so desperately wanted to kiss John, at least on the cheek, if he truly could manage to reach his lips without attracting attention. He found his eyes slowly lingering away from the small print on the paper and to the face of John Watson. He knew that John could feel his eyes on him, how long till he would acknowledge them?

 

“Pull the paper up.” Apparently not long. They were both whispering now.

 

“Pardon?”

 

“God’s sake, Holmes! Do as I say and pull the paper up.”

 

Aroused by the commanding tone that John put on, Sherlock raised the paper quickly. He stared at John in anticipation and a sigh, louder than he would have liked, left him when John’s lips met his own. Sherlock nearly dropped the newspaper at how needy John’s kissed seemed. He too craved affection and Sherlock wanted nothing more than to supply him with an ample amount once they were at their lodgings. Even in Switzerland they were not free to love as they wanted, but tonight Sherlock would allow himself to relax in John’s company, to get a room together, if they could. He wanted to love John in a way that he could not have since Sebastian’s departure.

 

\------------

They arrived in Switzerland towards the afternoon and went straight to their room. Thankfully Sherlock was able to get them a room with two single beds on either side of the room. They spent the remainder of the day getting settled in and by the time they were finished, the two were exhausted from the length of journey and from unpacking. John sank into the bed with his shirt half undone. He wanted to fall asleep entirely but Sherlock had not yet returned with dinner and he did not want to sleep on an empty stomach. Just as he moved to take his shirt off completely, Sherlock opened the door and closed it swiftly as he saw John’s bare chest.

 

“Are you really going to retire so early?”

 

“Sherlock, I am dreadfully tired, as are you, and no, I am not going to retire until after we eat.”

 

Sherlock smiled and set the plate on his night stand. “Good.” He pressed a kiss to John’s temple and joined him as they sat and ate in silence. They had said all they needed to on the train and now they just wanted each other’s presence and nothing else. The food was good enough, John supposed, but he had had better back at Baker Street. At the thought, John sighed. He missed their flat. He missed the security of it, and the intimacy of their bedroom. He set the plate down and moved back to lay down while Sherlock still sat on the edge of the bed finishing his food. John was surprised to see Sherlock eat as much as he did, he was probably just as hungry as John was. Sherlock set the plate down next to John’s half-eaten one and turned to face his sleepy love.

 

“John you must get into your night-clothes. I can lock the door, but come morning I cannot.”

 

John closed his eyes and said, “It appears I am too weary to move. You must help me change, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock smacked his arm and laughed. “You are an arse.”

 

John giggled and placed a hand high on Sherlock’s thigh. “But you do not refuse.”

 

Sherlock placed his hand on John’s arm and began stroking it gently. “Fine. I will I aid you, since you are so incapable.”

 

He rose from the bed and fetched John’s pajamas. He was careful when he slid the rest of John’s shirt off, letting it fall to the floor. He then unfolded John’s button up shirt and put it on him slowly and gently. John watched, completely smitten, as Sherlock wore a soft but straight face and changed him with the utmost care and efficiency. When he was finished, he gave John a smile. It was a small one, but in that smile held all the love and admiration that could not fit in his piercing eyes. John held his breath and found himself reduced to an ogling mess that could not help but touch Sherlock’s cheeks and marvel at the wonderful man that sat beside him.

 

“You are beautiful, Sherlock.” He breathed. He kissed Sherlock’s cheeks and then watched as the man rose from the bed, gathered the plates and left the room. John lifted up the covers and got comfortable while Sherlock returned their dinner plates. When he did come back, Sherlock smirked and crossed his arms. “Are we ready for bed now, Mr. Watson?”

 

“Join me,” John mumbled, half-asleep, half-awake, and aroused.

 

“In your bed?”

 

“Mhm.”

 

Sherlock scoffed. He turned around and began unbuttoning his shirt. John rolled over and watched as he took his shirt off. He knew that Sherlock could feel his eyes on him and was glad that it did not stop him from changing. After Sherlock slid his night clothes on, he turned around to face John. He had on a purple silk set, whereas John had on a plain blue and white striped set. John was still staring at Sherlock with an affectionate smirk. Sherlock inched his way over to John so the man rolled over onto his back and grabbed Sherlock’s hand as the brunet climbed on top of him. When Sherlock was straddling John, he bent down so that his face was directly above John’s. There was no surprise when Sherlock started to kiss him. John’s hands wrapped around that narrow waist as Sherlock trailed lips slowly down his neck, pausing briefly to unbutton the first three buttons of his shirt, and then continued to kiss his chest. John tried not to moan, seeing as how others were probably already asleep and could likely hear them if he were any louder. He whispered Sherlock’s name as the man moved back to John’s neck and then returned to his lips. John was disappointed when Sherlock stopped their kiss. Before John could speak, Sherlock lifted the covers and made his way underneath them. He kissed John a few more times before he closed his eyes. The pull of sleep held no fighting chance against the exhaustions of the day so John could not protest. Instead both men found themselves fading into slumber and into their dreams...

 

\------

 

In the morning, John awoke before Sherlock. He smiled, kissed him on both cheeks, and then started to stroke the curls on his head. It was rare that John had awoken before Sherlock. He enjoyed to sleep, and wished that Sherlock had a better opinion of sleep as well. John looked out the window and saw that the sun was fairly high - it could not be later than nine, he thought. That was odd, was there no wake-up call? Did anybody knock them awake? Either John and Sherlock were more tired than they appeared, or this inn lacked proper service. He chalked it up to it being their state of fatigue. He kissed Sherlock on the temple and attempted to get over Sherlock without waking the man up.

 

“Come on Sherlock, budge over,” He whispered to himself, grinning amusedly.

 

The sleeping man unconsciously complied and moved over, allowing John enough room to get over him and get dressed. He had wanted to spend the day sight-seeing with Sherlock but he did not know when Sherlock would rise  John wanted to get a head start so that when he went with Sherlock, he could be of some use. Before he left the room, he walked over to what would be Sherlock’s bed, and mussed up the sheets to make it seem like he had slept in it.

 

The innkeeper smiled at John as he walked out. The first thing that took John by surprise was the sunshine beaming down on him. London did not have this much sunlight, when the sun shone at all. There were greens and yellows so vibrant, John could hardly believe it. Perhaps Sherlock was right - they had needed this holiday, if it was truly a holiday and nothing more. John put his hand in his pockets. What underlying motive could Sherlock have for bringing them here? What business did Sherlock have in Switzerland of all places? If only they would have taken holiday in France, where they could at least be public with their love with no incident.

 

Maybe if he walked enough he would end up in the grass and find flowers to pick for Sherlock. For now, he would settle with finding the nearest market and buying Sherlock some sweets. He was satisfied when he found a tiny bakery and walked in. He bought two slices of Swiss Torta that were carefully boxed for the journey back to the inn. John had started on that very journey when something caught his eye. He stopped dead in his tracks and could not remove his eyes from the man that was standing before him. He had alarming blue eyes and chestnut colored hair - John nearly dropped his treats - he could recognize those features anywhere.

 

“.... Sebastian?”

 

Sebastian smiled and tears formed in his eyes as he nodded.

  
“John!”


	26. The Beginning of the End

John looked Sebastian up and down. He was going mad, surely he was. This was the guilt that he sought to repress, he should have known his mind would betray him and force him to see visions of Sebastian. He must return to the inn, he must see Sherlock and hug him and kiss him and remind himself that he was real and that Sebastian was gone from them forever. Moriarty had him and what were the chances of him whisking Sebastian and his crew to Switzerland as well?

 

John placed a hand on his head and shook it. “This cannot be, you...you are gone from me. You are but a figment of my mind. I--I must away.”

 

He felt the familiar grasp on his wrist. How could he imagine such a realistic hallucination? The skin as smooth as his own, almost unnaturally so. His hand, warm to the touch. The stitching on his wrist in the same fashion as his own sutures. Was Sebastian truly here? Was this not a cruel trick?

 

“No, do not leave! It is me John, I am here before you as real as you could make me. Come, place your hand upon my breast and feel the heart that beats.” Sebastian slowly moved John’s hand to his chest and true to his word there were the beats of a heart underneath his palm. He was real! By God, Sebastian was real!

 

“But...how is it that you’ve come to Switzerland? Where is Moriarty? Thomas?”

 

Sebastian released John’s hand, nearly letting out a whimper. Just as he had done at the flat, he fiddled with his fingers and refused to meet John’s eyes.

 

“They are...away for the moment. I have been left alone and this is such a beautiful country I had a thought to take a walk. How glad I am to have gained that temporary feeling of courage.” His eyes flickered to John’s own and made his heart swell.

 

“Do you mean that they have left the country and you all by your lonesome?”

 

Sebastian shook his head. “Forgive me, I have misled you with my words. I only meant that they have taken leave of our residence and did not wish to include me in their plans.”

 

John frowned and rested a hand on Sebastian’s shoulder. “You must be dreadfully lonely.” Sebastian swallowed and shook his head. “Your face is a much welcome sight. I have missed you terribly.”

 

John’s smile nearly betrayed just how elated he felt. He was tempted to stretch his smile to its very limit, but decided against it. He pulled Sebastian into a hug and was worried that if he let go, Sebastian would merely fade away and leave him even more melancholic than before. He did not miss the way the man nuzzled into his neck. The only other person to do this was Sherlock, but for a reason other than Sebastian’s. When they pulled away, Sebastian looked inside of the shop and then around the area and stared at John with a frown.

“Sherlock is not with you? Have you come alone?”

 

John smiled and shook his head. “Of course not, Sebastian. You know that wherever I journey Sherlock is not far behind, and neither am I of him. This holiday was his idea; I regret to say that I was more than a bit reluctant to travel here. I suppose I should return to the inn and thank him.”

 

Sebastian’s face looked hopeful. “It is not too much to ask if I may accompany you back to your inn? I have sorely missed the sight of your faces.”

 

John crossed his arms, mindful of the fact that he was holding baked goods. “You have forgiven him then?”

 

Sebastian nodded. “I have never borne ill-will towards him, John. It was he who could not stand the sight of me.”

 

“You do understand his reasons for his poor behavior?” He was not excusing the way Sherlock acted while Sebastian was at Baker Street. He could not bear the thought that the love of his life and his kin could not care for each other. To his relief, Sebastian nodded and smiled.

 

“He would have me believe that it was his brother’s death, but I reckon he was only lonely and dare I say envious that you doted on me so.”

 

John smirked and ruffled Sebastian’s hair. “You grow smarter each day and I must applaud you now on how well you handled his black moods. While we do not understand much more than him, he is rather inexperienced when it comes to emotions. I only wish you to know that he does hold affection in his heart, and that he did not truly hate you. Just the way he felt toward you.”

 

John knew that he should have let Sherlock explain himself, but he feared that it would not have come out as delicately as John had made it. He loved Sherlock dearly and he wanted Sebastian to understand why. Sebastian smiled, “He is a good man, John. You need not tell me.”

John opened his mouth to respond but Sebastian replied, “His surly demeanor holds no candle to Moriarty.” It was a joke, but John found no humor in it, and from the way the humor did not reach Sebastian’s eyes, neither did he.

 

“Come, let us be off.”

 

Sebastian hummed and followed after him.

 

When they returned to the inn, John motioned for Sebastian to wait outside. He had left Sherlock asleep and was unsure as to whether or not he would be awake now or not. To his surprise, Sherlock was still lying in bed, fast asleep. John placed a hand to his mouth at the sight of his love, who was usually so well-groomed, with mussed up curls and mouth hanging open slightly as he let out the softest of snores. With a warm smile plastered on his face he made his way over to Sherlock and knelt down. He pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s mouth and let out a chuckle as he watched the man continue to sleep. This was the result of days without sleep. John stroked the wild curls and placed kisses all over his face. Still he slumbered. John laughed and moved to stroke the sharp cheekbones that he adored so much. Sherlock was beautiful, he was beautiful when he was sick, he was beautiful when he was upset. He is even beautiful when he was sad, but John would do anything in his power to ensure that Sherlock never feel such an emotion again. However there was something about Sherlock when he slept that made him simply irresistable to John. The way his face was so soft and fragile and made John feel as if he would shatter the man if his touch be. His mouth was soft, pink, gorgeous. It was one of the few times where he was relaxed, where he allowed himself to be vulnerable. He would protest if he were awake, but John knew that there were many things that Sherlock Holmes could and could not do and one of his weaknesses on his very small list was fight the needs of his body, and John. John sighed  and placed another kiss to his mouth, it was flattering, humbling, and so very predictable that John was his weakness.

 

“How very proud you make me to be your lover,” John whispered. When John’s hand lingered to Sherlock’s neck, those pale eyelids fluttered to reveal the blue eyes that made him shiver. John sucked in his breath at the sheer beauty that Sherlock possessed. How could anyone lay eyes on such a wonderful man and think to treat him with cruelty and malice? The thought was simply unfathomable.

 

Sherlock’s lips curled into a smile at the sight of John. He placed a hand on John’s cheek and caressed it.

 

“I do hope, my dear John, that you did not plan on abandoning me.”

 

Sherlock’s voice had not reached its baritone. John sighed, this was the Sherlock Holmes that only he was allowed to see. This what Sherlock could have been if they had known each other their whole lives, well, if John had been human and alive. Sherlock being this soft, this gentle, it stirred the deepest feelings of love and intimacy within John. He still wished for Sherlock to open up to him, and to love him inside and outside. But he would not push Sherlock if he did not wish to have sex, Sherlock would confide in him when he was ready, of that he had no doubt. He was perfectly content to love Sherlock just as they were now.

 

“Perish the thought. I have only stepped out for a moment. It appears that I neglected to bring my novels with me and you were still asleep. A walk is an excellent cure for boredom, I should think.”

 

Sherlock chuckled before  yawning and sitting up. He looked more like a little boy rather than a grown man. The charms that this man possessed never ceased to amaze John. That ice blue gaze turned downwards to look upon the treats John  held.

 

“You have returned with sweets?”

 

“I have.”

 

Sherlock kissed John again and took the bag. “I do hope there is something here for me.”

 

John leaned in for another kiss. He puckered his lips and looked at Sherlock expectantly. Sherlock smirked and gave a brief, but passionate kiss and started to rummage through the bag. John rose from his kneeling position and joined Sherlock on the bed. He watched Sherlock pull out his confection and begin to eat it fussily.

 

“How are you enjoying Switzerland, John? Are you glad that you have joined me?”

 

John gave a wry smirk. If only Sherlock knew.

 

“I am very grateful that you withstood my constant complaints and brought me along.”

 

Sherlock rose a brow, amused, “Now who was it that once told me that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit? Was it you or another dashing man?”

 

John smacked his leg. “Do not get coy with me, Holmes. Not when I am in the best of moods.”

 

That caught Sherlock’s attention. “Oh?”

 

“Oh. While I was exploring the Swiss scenery, I came across a surprise.”

 

“A pleasant surprise?”

 

“Quite so. In fact, I thought I might share my surprise with you but you must get dressed.”

 

Sherlock finished his treat and shoved the bag aside. He climbed onto John’s lap and began to pepper John’s neck in kisses. John stifled a moan. “You are quite active in the morning, Sherlock. However, I’m afraid that my surprise cannot wait any longer.”

 

Sherlock looked into John’s steel-blue eyes and smiled. “Do you mean that you did not speak in jest?”

 

“You are incapable of understanding such intricacies, my dear.”

 

Sherlock feigned offense and held his chest, “You are such a hurtful man.”

 

John rubbed his nose against Sherlock’s and lightly guided him off his lap. He waited patiently as Sherlock dressed and prepared himself for the day, although he wondered how Sherlock would react to the sight of Sebastian standing just beyond the door. Sherlock smoothed his shirt out and looked over at John.

 

“Now then, let us see this surprise you are going on about.”  

 

John shot up and grinned. He walked over to the door and opened it to reveal Sebastian standing there with the happiest expression a face could muster. He moved to hug Sherlock, leaving said man with a shocked look, at least, that was what John believed it was. Sebastian removed himself from Sherlock’s body and said, “Sherlock, how happy it makes me to see you!”

 

Sherlock closed his mouth and formed an awkward smile. “I-I am...Sebastian.”

 

“It is truly me, I promise. John had thought the same.”

 

John blushed and looked over at Sherlock. “Well? Is this all it took to render you speechless?”

 

Sherlock’s eyes never left Sebastian as he shook his head and responded, “Far from it, actually.”

 

Sebastian’s smile faltered as he looked toward the door.

 

“Is something wrong, Sebastian?”

 

At John’s inquiry Sebastian nodded and fiddled with his fingers again. He was still very much like a child, John thought to himself.

 

“I... I must be off now. I am so very sorry John, what I would not give to remain here with you and Sherlock, what I would not sacrifice to be back at Baker Street, basking in the quiet and the heat from the fire as we sit and chat. Or to watch you, Sherlock, work on your experiments or listen to you play again. But I cannot, I simply cannot.”

 

Sherlock’s mistake was making eye contact with John. He could not stand to see the pure and utter pain that was all over his love’s face. For a very brief moment he grew angry with Sebastian for teasing his John in such a terrible way. He did not want John to know that he was here until the absolute last second. Sebastian, along with Sherlock, were the only two people that could ever break down the strong, soldier-like resolve that only John could possess. It was not as if Sebastian was not hurt by this departure, perhaps he spotted John earlier and wanted to let him go about his day, but Sebastian was still very much like a child emotionally. He was not like John who became the wise, kind, and handsome man that Sherlock knew now, and the sight of John had simply become too much.

 

“I promise, if I am able - they go to and fro often - I will return here.”

 

The three men stood in silence, and Sherlock could see the way Sebastian faltered, and John’s hands trembled. Sebastian, and it made Sherlock sick to even think such a horrid plan, could prove to be a sufficient distraction for John when he went to seek Moriarty out and end it once and for all. It crushed him to keep such a secret from the love of his life, but it would hurt even more if John were to get injured, or worse, all to help him. He would not live with himself if John died for a bullet that was meant for him, should it come to that.

 

“Please, do come back. It would do John good to see you. We are not sure how long this holiday will last, but any time spent with you is much encouraged.”

 

Sebastian’s eyes widened at Sherlock’s words, then his mouth gave way to a wide smile. He nodded furiously and extended his hand towards Sherlock. “Oh of that you have my word. Thank you so much, Sherlock!”

 

John stared at Sherlock with a blank expression, which then gave way to a small smile and a nod. Sebastian hugged them both again and made a hasty exit from the inn. John shut the door and sank to the bed looking as tired as ever. “He said Moriarty left him all by his lonesome. He is not a person to be left in isolation, Sherlock. He needs to be around people….he does not know how to be alone…”

 

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “He has been left alone? Moriarty is not here?”

 

John shook his head. “No, I have been reliably informed that he, accompanied by Sir Thomas, is no longer at their place of residence. Mind you Sebastian still requires practice with his manner of speech….” John’s face darkened.

 

“John?”

 

“Why are we here, Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock’s lip quivered and he wore a mock smile. “Why, we are on holiday. I have already told you this before we de-”

 

“Why. Are. We. Here. Sherlock?” John’s voice was grave and his face became completely devoid of emotion. Sherlock cursed himself. He had not planned on Sebastian turning up and ruining everything, but John would have become wise eventually. That was the thing about his John, he was pretty damn smart.

 

Sherlock ran a hand over his face and sighed as he too sat on the bed. For a while they sat in silence and he wondered how long they would sit like that before John broke the silence or left the room, or him. This would surely be the breaking point for him. John would not be able to handle how much he had lied, or how often he kept the truth from everyone. Why would he follow a man to the ends of the earth if he could not even trust him to give him the truth? He should have known this would not last. Moriarty did it, he successfully killed Sherlock Holmes, or, he would if John left him. John would take Sebastian and flee the country. Would he go back to Baker Street? Paris? Or would he go to the States and make a life for himself there with a new companion? He loved John so much that it hurt, and it would surely ruin him if he were to leave now.

 

“Why keep such a thing secret, Sherlock?” His voice lowered, “I love you a great deal, I will do anything to keep you safe, you know this. Why, love, would you think to keep me in the dark?”

 

Sherlock sighed and grabbed John’s hand. He nearly sobbed when he felt John’s hand squeeze his own. “The very same reason you have just told me, my John...my dear John, love of my life....you will aid me without a doubt and that will result in your demise. My brother died protecting me and I will be damned if you will go down in the same fashion. I will not have your blood on my hands, John...I cannot. Moriarty is not your enemy.”

 

“Any enemy of yours is an enemy of mine, Sherlock! Do not be daft, do not  dare be selfish now, not after all we have been through. We will face Moriarty together, and if we must, we will die together.” John’s tone was gravelly and he was now holding Sherlock’s face in his warm hands. His own was expression was hardened, but his eyes held the anger, the love, the compassion, that Sherlock desperately sought.

 

“We will stop Moriarty, and Thomas, and we will take Sebastian and go...go anywhere -  Baker Street, Paris - where we can be ourselves...I will even travel overseas if you wish it, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock breathed out a pitiful chuckle. “It will always be the two of us against the world, will it not?”

 

John smiled and kissed him hard first, but then they became progressively lighter until they stopped altogether. “There is no Watson without Holmes.”

 

They pressed foreheads, and later they found themselves resting their heads on the other’s shoulder, arms wrapped around the other’s waist. They were tired, but they were together and that was enough, was it not? Sherlock’s eyes watered at the thought. John’s utter devotion to him was heartwarming and motivating, but he would not take him to encounter Moriarty, he simply could not do so.

 

\---------

 

Sebastian returned to their temporary home. He stepped into the living area to find Thomas and Moriarty sitting in their respective chairs smoking cigars and sipping what he thought was whiskey. He hoped that they would let him pass, that they would not make him drink that liquid that burnt his throat, or the cigar that made him cough and feel ill for smoking it.

 

He walked towards the back, to his room, so that he could be left alone and safe, but he heard Moriarty’s voice beckoning him to sit with them. There was an armchair for each of them, he pushed his as far away as he could without much notice. He did not like Moriarty. The man  was wicked, he was evil, he was everything John and Sherlock were not. He did not like Thomas for staying quiet, even when Sebastian knew he disagreed, for being a coward, for watching as Moriarty destroyed the world around him.

 

“Come, have a drink. Thomas! Bring our man here a drink.”

 

Thomas rose and went. Sebastian sat uneasily as Moriarty stared at him with those soulless black eyes and a smile that sent chills up his spine. He took slow drags from his cigar and Thomas walked over to him with a glass of whiskey. They sat in silence and Sebastian refused to drink the amber liquid. Moriarty rose from his seat and was only mere inches away from the sitting man.

 

“What is the matter? Is whiskey not to your liking?”

 

Sebastian stared at his feet as he shook his head. “You know that I do not like to drink. It made me...it was not a pleasant feeling, sir.”

 

“Well, we can’t have that, now can we?” Sebastian swallowed hard. Moriarty knelt down to be eye level. He rested a hand on Sebastian’s wrist and slowly rolled up the sleeve to expose his arm. “Well, my darling Sebastian, let us make a deal. I finish your drink and you tell me where you were.”

 

Sebastian did not speak or move and Moriarty’s face became grave. The hand with the cigar rose and hovered dangerously close to his skin. He could feel the heat singe the hair on his arm. He tried to steady his breathing. The trick was to make sure that he knew that you were not afraid.

 

He would not tell Moriarty where John and Sherlock were.

 

He would not give him the satisfaction.

 

He missed them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your patience and we promise that we try very hard to fit this into our busy schedules. Big thank you to my co-author for helping me with this!


	27. An End Once and For All

Sebastian was sitting on his bed, nursing his arm and trying his hardest not to let his tears fall. Moriarty was especially cruel to him today, and it was not the drink that spawned it. He was in a bad mood, Sebastian could already tell as much. If Moriarty’s mood was lighter, he would have let him pass without any argument seeing as how he seldom joined the two in the living room to smoke and drink. He remembered the last time he was forced to witness Moriarty’s black mood. It made him miss Sherlock’s sulks.

He looked down at his arm and grimaced at the burn he felt. Moriarty extinguished his cigarette on his arm as punishment for not releasing information regarding his whereabouts. He thought they would not be back until tonight, at the very least he would be able to see John and Sherlock once more without fear of being caught. He remembered the day after he was taken, Thomas and Moriarty seated in the carriage discussing Switzerland. He was finished with his business in London, Sherlock no doubt being such business, and he was ready to begin anew until something else caught his attention. Thomas sat there and listened with a solemn face and nodded once an inquiry was thrown his way. Thomas had not been the same since they left Baker Street with Sebastian. After his encounter with Sherlock, it changed him, made him more quiet. Sebastian did not care for Thomas.

Sebastian looked over at the window and stared at the sun that was beginning to set. Maybe he could venture once more to the inn where Sherlock and John were, maybe, if he was lucky enough, he would be able to steal away with the two under the cloak of night and never have to see Moriarty or Switzerland again. The thought made his wound hurt a little less, as he no longer thought about it. He was being foolish. Moriarty was smart, much too smart for Sebastian. He would have him caught in no time and he feared what the consequence would be for such misconduct.

He heard the men mumble about something, and then the sound of a door closing. Did they both retire? Did they leave again? How long would they be out? Maybe he would risk it to see John and Sherlock again. Hearing their voices made him sink with despair. He missed John and Sherlock terribly, and to see them once again, and so briefly as well made him hurt in more places than his wrist.

Ten minutes had passed since he heard either of the men speak or fix another drink. He got up and moved towards the window and saw that the carriage was not there. They were gone! How long had they been here before he returned? Were they waiting for him before they departed? He supposed so, he was something of their guard dog once they were away. They never included him in their travels, save for this one to Switzerland. They only left him behind and expected him to be there when they returned. It was so lonely. At Baker Street, he was never alone, if John was absent from the flat then Sherlock would be there. Sherlock was not so keen to conversation as John was, but it was still company. The alternate was same if Sherlock were away except John would read to him and converse with him about everything. A single tear fell from his eye. He wanted to be gone from this place, to be free of Moriarty and Thomas. One more visit would not hurt. It would be quicker now, he knew where they were, he could be quick. He only wanted John to smile at him again, and to tell him how smart he was, and how much he missed him. He wanted to watch Sherlock fuss with whatever kept him occupied, see him wake in the morning with mussed hair and bleary eyes.

He made his way to the living area, the seats were empty and the grooves on the chairs were nearly nonexistent. He pulled his coat off the rack and placed his cap on his head. The door seemed in that moment so close yet so far. He was only mere inches away, but his legs felt locked in place. He exhaled, and he began his walk to the exit. As soon as his hand was hovering above the doorknob, the sound of a door opened and then closed.

“Where are you going, Sebastian?”

Sebastian’s hand went to his other arm and tugged on the sleeve.

“Nowhere, I need air, sir.”

“Is there not enough air in here? I’ll open a window.”

“You do not have to do that, sir.” Sebastian refused to turn to face him. He was terrified, but knowing Moriarty, he already knew.

“So, then you are not in need of air. Is it your wrist? Is it bothering you? Come let me have a look. I fear I was a bit overzealous, but, what is done is done.”

“No, I am fine.”

“So then where are you off to? Something has peaked your interest and I do believe I am well within my right to know what it is.”

Sebastian gulped as he heard the shoes move across the wooden floor.

“Nothing has captured your eye since we have been together, so you might understand why I am so curious. You do not partake in smoking or drinking, not very English of you I might add. I ask myself, what is that has my dear Sebastian so occupied that he does not even stay at home? Then, I’ve come to a conclusion. Two conclusions.”

Sebastian felt Moriarty standing right behind him as he said, “Our friends Mr. Holmes and Watson have joined us, have they not?”

The lack of an answer only confirmed his inquiry. Moriarty laughed and Sebastian shivered.

“And how simply perfect it is that you have found them! Now, you will take me to them.”

“Sir…”

The wound stung as Moriarty grabbed it. Sebastian bit his lip to stifle the moan of pain that was coming to his lips.

“Now now, I expect to be given nothing short of compliance when I ask something of you.”

Sebastian bit his lip. Moriarty was a cruel man, and he wanted to flee, to be rid of him forever, to go to John and Sherlock and leave with them.

“Sebastian,” Moriarty began once again, a malicious smirk pulling a corner of his lip, “where are you off to?”

Sebastian gulped.

~~~~~~~

John sighed as Sherlock paced the room.

“We will find a way to stop him, of this you have my word, Sherlock.”

Sherlock shook his head.  
  
“He is clever, much too clever to be caught so foolishly.”

“We will think of something, I am sure. Moriarty is human, just as you are, he can be killed just like anyone else.”

“If only there were a way to kill such a heartless man such as he.”

John looked up at the clock and furrowed his brows. “Do you suppose Sebastian will stop off here? He did say that he will be back come this evening.”

Sherlock looked up at John and groaned. “Moriarty has no doubt returned from wherever he ventured. He would not leave Sebastian alone for long, he would not have asked for his creation had he not some use for him.”

“I wish you would not speak of him this way. He is a man, just as I am. He is not a tool to be used by Moriarty, just as I am not a tool to be used by you.”

“No, of course not, forgive me. The thought of Moriarty leaves me beside myself.”

John stood up from his spot on the bed and moved to hug Sherlock. “Do not fret my love, we will win, Moriarty holds no candle to us. Then we will take Sebastian and we will leave this land and go elsewhere, Baker Street is where I assume Sebastian would want to reside.”

“Yes, we will see our Baker Street yet again, my dear Watson.” Both smiled at the idea. Sherlock was the one to break the embrace, although every fiber in his being wanted nothing more than to remain in John’s arms, Moriarty be damned.

“I would like some air.”

“Open the window then. Lord knows this room could use a good airing out.” John walked over to the window and opened it. He turned to Sherlock, searching for a sign of relief, but there remained that same uncomfortable look. He shook his head, “This is not what I need.”

“A walk then? That should clear your head right up. I know that you would rather bathe but we are not in our flat, the feeling would not be so intimate here.”

“No, it would not.”

John clapped his hands together. “Would you care for company on this walk, or would you prefer to be alone?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I do not know what I want. My body yearns for peace of mind, but I am unsure of how to achieve it.”

John only smiled and placed a kiss to both of Sherlock’s cheeks. “Perhaps I am not the peace you crave now. Go for a walk outdoors, and then maybe, when your head is a bit clearer, you can return and we can resume our discussion.”

Sherlock let out a sigh and nodded. John was right, he was always right. He went to put his jacket on and gave John one last look before he left the inn. He would not be gone long; thirty minutes should be enough to soothe his mind. He hated to leave John alone, this was not a safe space. He shoved his hands in his pocket and strolled, he was not so far gone that he missed how gorgeous the day was. This was surely the reason why John had fallen in love with the country. He had half a mind to visit the pastry shop that John had come to frequent. John would appreciate the gesture, he was sure. He was so occupied with his thoughts, that he did not see the man in front of him. He stumbled and grabbed the stranger’s shoulders to steady them both.

“I am terribly sorry, sir…” He was met with the sight of Sebastian yet again.

“Sherlock! Think nothing of it, it was only an accident!”

“What are you doing here? You know that Moriarty will surely have your head for this.”

Sebastian looked down, his cheeks tinted red. “I... I’ve come to deliver this.” In his hand, there was a letter. Sherlock’s eyes flickered up to Sebastian, who seemed guiltier than anything.

He opened the letter.

_It appears our game of Cat and Mouse is at an end, Mr. Holmes_

“Did he relay to you anything else?”

“Only to meet him at the falls - Reichenbach.”

“Sebastian, pray tell, is this all?”

“It is, Sherlock. I had never intended for this to happen, I only wanted to see you again, and John. He caught me whilst I was leaving. It is all my fault,” Sebastian hung his head and his voice became shaky. Sherlock frowned, had he been given more time, Sebastian would not still retain his child-like mind, perhaps he would have been an equal to himself, or maybe even smarter than the both of them combined. He echoed the words that he heard John say so many times before. Sebastian was little more than a child mentally, and that was the fault of Moriarty and himself.

“You can. You can go see John.”

The glimmer of hope in his eyes was too much for Sherlock to bear.

“I must return. Moriarty will have my hide if I am late.”

Sherlock did not miss the way Sebastian tugged at his sleeve. He was hiding marks, it was the same thing Sherlock used to do when he was a child. Surely Moriarty would not be so barbarous as to lay hands on Sebastian.

“Give me your arm, Sebastian.” Ah, there was fear in his eyes. His suspicions were confirmed. The poor man.

“I would rather not.”

“Give me your hand, Sebastian,” Sherlock had to use a little more force in his voice, he regretted it, but Sebastian finally complied and placed his hand in Sherlock’s grasp. He whimpered when Sherlock moved to roll up the sleeve. There it was, the darkened mark against pale skin, angry red that showed violence. It looked fresh and was no doubt being irritated by the material of Sebastian’s jacket.

“How...when did this happen, Sebastian?”

“Just last night. I would not tell him my whereabouts and he did not like that.”

With a surge of anger that Sebastian did not see, Sherlock gently pushed the sleeve down and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Go to the inn, I will see to Moriarty and then we shall take leave of this place. You, John, and I. Do you understand?”

“Oh, very well Sherlock!” Sebastian was beaming now at the mention of freedom with the two people he loved most, trusting Sherlock so completely that he did not give a moment’s thought to doubts. “Where will we go?”

“That will be the fun part. Simply spin the globe and point to where it stops and that is where we shall go. He will not hurt us any longer.”

Sebastian nodded and turned toward the inn. Before he began walking, he said, “Moriarty is a wicked man, Sherlock. He will not stop, he will hound us and harass us at every corner. The only way to be free of him...is….”

“Is what, Sebastian?”

Sebastian gulped, “It is horrid of me to wish such a thing on a person, but he is bad, and he has to die.”

Sherlock clenched his fist and nodded. “I know Sebastian, I know. Now go, be off and go to John. If he asks for me...distract him, do not tell him where I went. That is all I ask.”

Sebastian looked terrified, “But John will worry! I cannot lie to him, Sherlock. It is unthinkable…”

“I will not drag him down with me. If we are to be free, I must go this alone. Moriarty is my enemy and mine alone. If I do not return by tomorrow...tell John he is to seek passage out of Switzerland, and quite possibly Europe if he must. I will not see any harm come to him or you.”

Sebastian did not respond at first. It was not until Sherlock was nearly gone that he heard him say, “Don’t go.”

Sherlock turned around and saw the pitiful look that Sebastian gave him. “John will be unhappy, as will I. He...he cares for you a great deal, I may not have your intellect, but I know enough to understand. We can leave right now, if you wish it. I have no need to pack.”

Sherlock nearly faltered at the attempt. He could not leave this undone, Moriarty summoned him and he must answer. With a deep and shaky breath, he turned around and began his journey to the Reichenbach Falls.

\---------

There was a knock at the door and John smiled, as he approached it. He swung it open, half expecting Sherlock to be there, but it was Sebastian.

“Sebastian? What brings you here again?”

“I... I could not stand to be so far. I snuck away from Moriarty and have come here.”

“You just missed Sherlock, have you bumped into him during your travel here?” Sebastian could not stand to look John in the eye and instead looked to the floor. He shook his head. He was terrible, he was a horrible person for lying to him! John’s fingers went under his chin so that they could be meet his again.

“What is the matter? You look dreadful. Sebastian, what is he doing to you?”

“May I come in? I wish to sit.”

John moved out of the way and let him walk in. “You may take your seat on Sherlock’s bed.” Sebastian slumped down onto the bed and fiddled with his thumbs. John was no idiot like him, he knew when something was wrong.

“Now will you tell me what the matter is?”

Sebastian shook his head and moved to grab his sleeve. He should have bandaged it before he left, he had been so focused on being away from Moriarty and Sir Banville that he neglected to treat his wound. John saw his pained face and knelt in front of him.

“Sebastian, if you would only tell me what is troubling you. You are not well, please, tell me what is wrong.”

His eyes prickled at the sound of John’s voice being so soothing, caring. It was like the night after he woke and John coaxed him into putting on the robe. He sniffed and wiped away the tears furiously, he would not disappoint Sherlock, and he would not worry John any more than he already was.

“Sebastian! What has you so upset?”

He let out a breath and offered his arm up to John. They both looked each other in the eye, and with the reassurance in John’s darker ones, he slowly moved to roll up the sleeve. When he was met with the burn his face darkened and instilled the smallest bit of fear in Sebastian. He had angered John, he had not meant to, he was weak.

“Did Moriarty do this to you?” John’s tone was dark and Sebastian could do little else but nod. “It is my fault, I was not supposed to leave, but I did not listen, and I would not tell him where I was. I am no good, John. I am supposed to be strong but I cry. I did not want to hurt that man Moriarty disliked but I did. I do not like the cigarettes and the liquor they make me drink but I consume then anyway. Why would you waste your time on a being like me?”

“Sebastian, what are you talking about? Moriarty is hurting you?”

Sebastian nodded, “I am to obey, and I never do. I do not like him, John, not at all.”

John shushed him and pulled him close into a hug, “Neither do I, but we will deal with him in time, as soon as Sherlock returns from his walk, we shall all handle this.”

“We will leave.” Sebastian whimpered. “We will go far from this place. Spin a globe and pick the spot it stops on.”

John smirked. “What if it lands on the Sahara?”

“We will make a home there.”

“Even with all the sand and the heat?”

“We will.”

John chuckled. “What if we land on Australia?”

“We will go and we will begin anew.”

“Egypt?”

“The pyramids are lovely creations.”

John patted Sebastian’s head. “And you will not miss Baker Street?”

“I will, but not in the way I missed you both.”

John pulled away and wiped the tears from his face. “Do not fret, Sebastian, that was the last time you will ever be away from us.”

\----------

Sherlock stood in front of the waterfall and admired it. It was a gorgeous creation of nature. If only he were there only to admire it and not for a final confrontation with Moriarty. The only thing he wished was that John would get out of this safely. He would leave with Sebastian and they would find a home somewhere that was not Baker Street, somewhere safe with no reminders of this day or their time here.

“Sebastian delivered my note, I see.”

He turned to see the man himself staring at him with a mischievous smirk on his face. Sherlock steeled himself, the time for recollection was over. He folded his hands behind his back. Moriarty stalked over to him and circled him like a shark.

“You are alone? Where is your lapdog, John Watson?”

“This is not his battle. Where is your minion?”

“Sir Banville? Out looking for that pathetic abomination you created for me.”

“I believe I have already found it then.” It was Sherlock’s turn to smile as Moriarty’s eyes darkened. He inhaled deeply and did his best to keep his composure. “Do you know what draws me to this place, Sherlock? Why I have chosen this to be our rendezvous?”

“Enlighten me.”

“It fascinates me how a waterfall looks so gentle, so serene and so tranquil, yet should you get too close...I believe you know how it ends.”

“Do I?”

“You will in a moment.”

\------------

John paced around the room stopping every few moments to glance at his watch, before resuming his pacing. Sebastian, who was now sporting a bandage around his arm, watched anxiously.

“Where is he? Are you sure you have not seen him, Sebastian?”

Sebastian did not answer. John, too distracted in his worry, started pacing again. Sebastian fussed with his bandage. He hated himself, he was vile for treating John this way. How could he lie to him? The man he loved could very well be dead by now, and he would have died alone thanks to Sebastian. He was doing as Sherlock said, he was no good to Moriarty, but he would be good for Sherlock.

“Sebastian, are you being honest with me?” John asked suddenly, Sebastian’s silences sparking suspicion in John’s desperation.

Sebastian swallowed and dug his fingers into his bandage.

“Where is Sherlock?”

“John…”

“Was this all a ploy of Moriarty’s to keep me....no, of course not. It was Sherlock’s doing was it not?”

Sebastian nodded, John knew now and he was forced to come clean. Perhaps this was not in violation of Sherlock’s command. John had come to the conclusion on his own, after all.

“He sent you here to distract me while he went off with Moriarty. That stubborn fool!”

John moved to the coat rack and spoke with fervor. “Sebastian, you must take me to them, I must help him, safety be damned!”

Sebastian nodded. He was terrified, but John needed him, and with the man he was facing, Sherlock would need them both. He raced to the door with John to locate Sherlock and Moriarty without a thought more.


	28. What Comes After

The ride to the falls was silent. John sat next to Sebastian and wrung his hands together as he thought about Sherlock being alone with Moriarty. He was angry, scared, and worried out of his mind when he thought about the love of his life. How could he fool John so? He used the only other person to have John’s heart to distract him. John turned to look at Sebastian who looked near tears. His hands clutched at the velvet of the seat, white and shaking. John frowned, Sebastian looked terrified. He waited a moment before the man spoke.

 

“I am...words cannot convey how truly apologetic I am, John.”

 

John’s smile softened, and the tension he felt was enough so that he too Sebastian’s quivering hand. “Come now, Sebastian…”

 

“No! I have done something terribly foolish and now you are cross with me and we shall never see Sherlock again. I am wrong, John. I am all wrong.” Sebastian’s eyes watered and John immediately began to stroke his hand to soothe him.

 

“Sebastian, none of this is your fault. Sherlock should not have used you in such a deceptive manner. He should have been honest with me so that we may both be together in such a dark and trying time. Trust me when I say that I am not cross with you. I could never bring myself to be upset with you in any way, Sebastian.”

 

“...Will he die, John?” Sebastian’s voice was soft and shaky, and it broke John’s heart into a million pieces. He was a grown man physically, but he betrayed that appearance by sounding like a frightened child. He only sighed and pulled the terrified man into an embrace. It probably did little to comfort him.

 

“Do not fret, Sebastian. Sherlock is reckless at times, yes, but he is a survivor and we will see him again.” John smiled at the thought of Sherlock, his Sherlock being the hero. He had to believe his own words. The possibility that Sherlock would perish and be gone from their lives was too outrageous to imagine. Sherlock was an integral part of his life that he would never be able to live without. Such a loss, John knew, would kill him. They pulled away but John made sure to hold Sebastian’s hand. What Sebastian said scared John too, but they couldn’t fall apart now. Not until they arrived.

 

\-------

 

“Do you know what it was like? To be locked away in an asylum as a child?” Moriarty and Sherlock were now at the bottom of the falls, the roar of the water nearly overpowering his voice. Sherlock’s hands were behind his back and his face unreadable.

 

“Would you have preferred prison? You know, I have heard rumors that the courts have executed children. I wonder what they would have done to you, should my brother have chosen to take that route.”

 

Moriarty sneered. “In an asylum they care little for the inmates. You are a lunatic, no matter if you are able to speak coherently, or intelligent enough to not take the medication. I spent years aching to be free of the place, hoping that they would have mercy on a child.”

 

“Children do not murder.”

 

“I consider it self-defense. Do you think that anyone would have told Powers to stop? To leave the Irish boy be? You are no genius if you think it so.”

 

“Be it as it were, what is done is done. I have forgotten about you. It is you who has chosen to spend his life obsessing over it.”

 

Moriarty snarled and shoved Sherlock. “I would have had you years ago. Your brother thwarted my plans and had me contained. He released me some time ago and I have spent every second of my freedom finding a way to stop you. To hurt you as you have hurt me.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes widened at the revelation Moriarty threw at him. Mycroft had stopped him? Of course Mycroft would never tell Sherlock what might upset him. He used his pull with the British government to do it, of that Sherlock had no doubt.

 

“So what are you planning to do? Admit me for insanity? Claim that I am mentally unfit to live in the public?”

 

Moriarty smirked devilishly and closer to Sherlock’s face. “Declaring your homosexual inclinations to an asylum would prove to be sufficient, I believe you will agree?”

 

Sherlock sucked in a breath. The man would not dare. He already thought that Lestrade had found out, and it nearly drove him mad. If Moriarty truly did something so cruel as that, he would send Sherlock to a fate worse than death.

 

“However, that seems too easy. And we are so far from London.” Sherlock exhaled at the statement. “I decided that I owe you a fall.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes closed and it was then he realized that he wanted John more than anything in the world.

 

\------

 

The carriage stopped and John peered out of the window. “Is this our destination, Sebastian?”

 

Sebastian nodded. “I am sure of it, we must be quick.”

 

John hopped out of the carriage, paid the driver and stood. It was not near the falls, though he could see it. If they made haste they would reach them in time. “Quickly, Sebastian!”

 

They took off running. With the both of them being superhuman, they were much faster than Sherlock could ever be, as well as having a considerable amount of stamina so they would not tire as fast. As the falls came closer, John picked up even more speed and forgot about Sebastian. He needed to get to Sherlock, he needed him to be okay.

 

“Hold!”

 

His feet skidded and he saw Thomas standing in front of them with a pistol drawn. Sebastian moved to stand in front of John, but John held him back.

 

“Sir Thomas.” John said curtly.

 

“I’ve no quarrel with you, John. I want Sebastian and then I will be off.”

 

“You are mad to think I will agree.”

 

“He has a gun!” Sebastian whimpered behind him. John only squeezed his hand for comfort.

 

“You have done enough to him, and you have done enough to Sherlock and I. Tell me where he is.”

 

Thomas held the gun up to face the sky as he listened to John speak. He smirked, and said, “There is a different air about you, John. Does it have something to do with me?”

 

“It has everything to do with you. Had you not gone off and told Moriarty about us, we would have been able to live as we see fit, and Moriarty would have never intruded upon our lives.”

 

Thomas cocked his head. “And do you not think that Sebastian would have come into your lives had we not ‘intruded’ as you call it? I find it unlikely. Tell me, had the thought ever crossed your mind to create him? To have another like you in the world? Another abomination?”

 

John’s hand clenched into a fist at that. Thomas was trying to get a rise out him, and it worked, despite himself he wanted to hurt the older man. Sebastian stopped him before he could actually inflict any damage on him.

 

“I am not an abomination!”

 

John and Thomas looked at him. He stepped out from behind John and puffed his chest . John blushed, he learned that by seeing John trying to seduce Sherlock. Sebastian’s hands were clenched and he had a look in his face that John had never seen before. God he looked intimidating - was this what Moriarty was trying to turn him into?

 

“Oh? And tell me monster, who are your parents? Your family? Whose womb were you born from?”

 

John shook his head at Sebastian. He knew that the man’s heart was soft, he did not know how to handle the evils of this world, and John was sorry for that. There was not enough time to harden him or instill a confidence to combat such cruel words. Sebastian’s blue eyes glanced to John, and for a moment the shorter man worried that he had lost his nerve. No, no it was quite the opposite.

 

“I may not have been placed on this world...by natural means, but I am not alone, Thomas. I have John, who shares the same unique ties to this world as I. I have Sherlock, and although we began on the wrong foot, I care for him as well as John. They are family to me, regardless of blood we do not share or which woman birthed me. I was birthed from Sherlock and John, and though not ideal, it is my lot in life and I should think that I have come to terms with it now. It does not matter to me whether they cared to create me before you appeared in their lives. If they were content to be together, there is little I can do to change that. I am here now, created as a bargaining chip for you, but I am loved by John and by Sherlock.”

 

Thomas and John stood aghast at Sebastian’s words. He was a fast learner, and Sherlock would have been proud to witness this moment. John smiled softly at Sebastian, and the way the man held his hand. He was nervous, terrified even, but he wanted to defend them as best as he could.

 

“I...do not like being with you or Moriarty. You are cruel men who deserve no place on this earth. It is not I who is the abomination, it is the both of you!”

 

Thomas pointed the gun at the two of them again. His face hardened. “ _I_ deserve no place on this earth? You are made of bits and pieces of men already dead. The two of you, so proud and self-righteous that you should tell me I am the abomination?”

 

John spoke this time. “The body does not make a man, sir Thomas, it is the heart. And do not tell me that you have none, you were good friends with Sherlock’s brother, how could you turn on him so effortlessly for a psychopath?”

 

“I...took him from the asylum that the Holmes brothers placed him in!”

 

“He murdered a child!”

 

“He was a child!” Thomas shouted back. His gun was shaking, whether his resolve was waning or he was becoming dangerously close to shooting one of them, John could not tell. John huffed and stood straight, to show Thomas that he was not weak and neither was Sebastian.

 

“I do not care how young he was, his intent was to kill another in cold blood and that is not right. He is very fortunate that he was not placed before a court either! Can you not see? He has you too! He cares little for you, all you are is a pawn for his utilization and nothing more. If you died today or tomorrow, he would not even shed a tear. Admit it, you know that you have wasted your life on a man who would have never thought to do the same for you. Is it truly so far-fetched that you are envious of Sherlock? He had family, has family. At the end of the day he will come back to us, and where will you go? Back to Moriarty.”

 

Thomas’ gun shook so much that John thought he was going to pull the trigger by accident. Instead, he dropped the gun and a look of defeat ran across his face.

 

“You are correct in this, Mr. Watson and I hate you for it. I am pathetic, and I deserve no better than Moriarty. I would very much like to kill you, to kill Moriarty, but I am nothing more than a coward who does his beck and call. I cannot stand the sight of...of this...creature!” He points to Sebastian who retreats behind John. “I cannot bear to look into your eyes. So blue and so melancholic. I know that not a day goes by where you do not think about these two and it makes me furious. Why should someone so unnatural, so...freakish, be bestowed with those who care for him? Why am I doomed to be little more than a henchman? Is it fair? I should think not.”

 

“Whatever possessed you to take the boy from the institution in the first place is for you to deal with alone. You have made your grave, now you must lie in it.”

 

Thomas let out a bitter laugh. “And how shall I do that?”

 

John shook his head, “Again, this is for you to decide after you take us to Sherlock. If there is any good in you left you will do this.”

 

Thomas nodded and motioned for them to follow. John barely caught him say, “It will all be for naught if Moriarty has his way.”

 

 

\----------

 

“You know, I never thought I would make it this far.” Moriarty half-shouted over the roar of the water. They were now on the cliff inside the falls. There was barely any room to walk, yet there they both stood, talking.

 

“You would not have made it had we not run into your confidante.” Sherlock replied shortly.

 

“Oh, I do not doubt that he certainly sped the process along, but I would have found you anyway. It was you who followed me here like a bitch in heat.”

 

“I needed to be rid of you, you know very private matters regarding me. Therefore, you are a risk and the only way to be sure of my safety was to remove you from the picture.”

 

“You came to kill me? That is rich, just rich indeed Mr. Holmes. My, you sound like your brother. I wonder what he would think of it all. You and I, standing here, dangerously close to the edge, talking about plans of death.”

 

“Of that, we can agree.”

 

Moriarty smirked and stood inches away from Sherlock’s face. “Well then, are you ready to die?”

 

Sherlock’s eyebrow rose at the question. “Funny, I was going to ask the same.”

 

\------

 

John and Sebastian came running behind Thomas and saw the two men peeking out from the water.

 

“There they are!”

 

Sebastian stopped behind him and his eyes widened.  “He’s going to kill him, John!”

 

John was not about to let that happen, without thinking, he screamed, “Sherlock!”

 

And then the fall.

 

\-------

 

“Sebastian! Sebastian come along now, we must be off.”

 

Sebastian walked down the stairs with a suitcase and a wide smile on his face.

 

“I’m sorry! I only wanted to make sure I was presentable for her.”

 

John smiled and smoothed the man’s collar back. “Hush, you now look the part of a respectable gentleman. I wonder where you learned such skills?”

 

Sebastian chuckled and opened the door. By the time John got his belongings gathered, Sebastian was already inside of the carriage. John swung the door open and sat himself across from him. He rose his eyebrows and he brushed his fingers over Sebastian’s hand. “Are you ready?”

 

“If I must be honest, no. What if she does not like me?”

 

“Rubbish.” Sherlock said. “Mrs. Hudson will love you. She has a habit of doing that.”

 

John nudged him. “Honestly, Sherlock.”

 

“What? Am I in the wrong?”

 

John rolled his eyes and said, “Do not listen to him, Sebastian. What he means to say is that she will get on with you splendidly.”

 

Sebastian smiled and moved back on the seat, John couldn’t help but stare at the two other men in the carriage and think about their survival that day, and the sacrifice of one Thomas Banville.

 

\-------

 

_“Sherlock!” John shouted to the top of his lungs. Moriarty was going to kill him. Launch him right over the edge of the cliff. He could not die, he was not going to die._

 

_He looked at Sebastian, who looked just as lost and panicked as he was. The poor man only followed John’s lead, if he was scared, then so was Sebastian._

 

_“Sir Thomas, your revolver, now!” John held his hand out for the weapon that never came. “Sir Thomas?”_

 

_He was nowhere to be found. Where could he have gone?_

 

_“John! Look, there he is!” Sebastian pointed up at the sky and they both saw Thomas sneaking up behind Moriarty. Moriarty and Sherlock were grappling each other and John nearly shut his eyes. What he saw instead was Sherlock dislodging Moriarty and pushing him into Thomas._

 

_Thomas then turned to Sherlock and said something. He threw himself over the edge of the waterfall with Moriarty in tow._

 

_“This is his retribution.” Sebastian whispered behind him and John could not do anything but nod._

 

_“Sherlock is alive.”_

 

\--------

 

John stepped out of the carriage with Sebastian and Sherlock. It had seemed like an eternity since he had been at the Holmes Manor. He wondered if Mrs. Hudson ever thought about writing them again. She had to miss Sherlock, regardless of how bad the terms his departure were. She raised him, that was practically his mother. Sherlock held John’s hand firmly and John smiled, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

 

“We are here with you, there is no need to be afraid.”

 

Sherlock let out a sigh and nuzzled against John’s face. “You are so much more than I could have ever expected, John. I want you to know this for forever and a day.”

 

John walked to the front door and knocked twice. They only waited for a short amount of time before she opened the door. The look on her face indicated to the both of them that she clearly missed Sherlock, and from the sad yet nostalgic smile on Sherlock’s features, John could tell that he missed her too.

 

“Oh my lord! Come in! Come in please!” She moved out of the way, only pausing to give the two wet kisses on their cheeks. She shut the door and escorted them to the living area. They took their seats and she gaped at the sight of them.

 

“Surely I am dreaming, or I have caught fever. You two, here again, it warms my heart.”

 

They both smiled at her.

 

“Now, tell me, who is this dashing young man you’ve bought with you? I do hope that you are not looking to find me a young husband.”

 

John laughed at that and looked at Sebastian, who visibly shrank in his seat at the mention of marriage. “No, nothing of the sort Mrs. Hudson. His name is Sebastian and he is very dear to us. Is that not right, Sebastian?”

 

He shook his head. “No.”

 

Sherlock folded his hands in his lap. “Mrs. Hudson we must ask a favor of you.”

 

“Oh? What is it?”

 

John and Sherlock exchanged looks.

 

\----------

 

_They were on the train back to London. No one spoke for a long time until Sebastian broke the silence._

 

_“Will we go back to Baker Street?”_

 

_“Where else would we go?” John mused. Sebastian shrugged._

 

_“I was told that we would go anywhere on the globe.”_

 

_Sherlock put his tea down. “Is there anywhere in particular that you would like to visit?”_

 

_“No.”_

 

_“Yet you do not sound like you wish to return to Baker Street.”_

 

_“Oh I do!” Sebastian exclaimed. “I did not care for Switzerland, not at all. I am glad to be going to London.”_

 

_John moved to grab Sebastian’s hand. “So then why do you sound as if you are unwilling to go back, are you spoiled by your traveling?”_

 

_Sebastian chuckled and shook his head. “Nothing like that.”_

 

_It was then that Sherlock had an idea._

 

_“Sebastian, there is a very special woman I would like you to meet in London.”_

 

_“Who is she?”_

 

_John smirked as Sherlock spoke._

 

_“Her name is Mrs. Hudson and I think you two will get along very well.”_

 

\--------

 

“Well here is news: Good afternoon Mrs. Hudson, I’ve not seen you in months, but I would like you to house a close friend of ours.”.

 

“We promise that he is a helpful young man. He is strong, rarely falls ill, and did I mention he is a young man that can help you with chores?”

 

Mrs. Hudson still looked cross but her attention was caught. John added, “We are not asking you to house a criminal. We merely ask that you give this man lodging. He will pull his weight, and he will be not far from us should he ever feel the need to see us, or us him.”

 

“Our dear Sebastian feels as if he is intruding upon our private life by staying. Also, we have nowhere for him to live and I should think that giving him our meager sofa is improper.”

 

Mrs. Hudson looked over at Sebastian, who was cautiously sipping at the tea that a servant had brought to him. She smiled at how adorable the lad was. He was very attractive, but there was something about him that made Mrs. Hudson want to lavish him in kisses and attention. She felt that this boy was kind, and that John and Sherlock were not lying when they said he would be pleasant company.

 

“Sebastian, will you be needing pay?”

 

Sebastian looked up at Mrs. Hudson wide-eyed and then shifted his focus over to Sherlock and John. Sherlock shook his head. “Do not worry, we will provide for him, at least, until you deem it necessary for him to be paid.”

 

“What will I do with money?” The tone that he asked it in, childish, scared, excited. It tugged at her heartstrings and she almost blurted out that she would pay him right now. But he needed to earn his keep just as everyone else did.  

 

“Whatever you see fit, Sebastian.” John replied. Mrs. Hudson sighed and nodded. “The boy is free to stay, so long as I get to see you lot more often.”

 

“John and I have decided on twice a month. Have we not John?”

 

John nodded and said, “We even decided on spending the night, just to make sure that Sebastian will settle in nicely. He’ll set a bed up in our room for the night, so you need not make up a guest room.”

 

“Alright. In that case, I should prepare dinner, and I believe this is the perfect time to see how well the boy does.”

She walked over to the kitchen and Sebastian followed behind her. John and Sherlock looked at each other and headed upstairs to prepare for dinner.

 

\-------

 

“I am quite proud of him.” John was facing a sleeping Sebastian. He and Sherlock were lying in bed together, they washed up after dinner and turned in early.

 

“The poor thing was absolutely drained when he came up here.” Sherlock commented. Sebastian followed Mrs. Hudson up and she sang the boy’s praises before leaving the three of them alone. His makeshift was already on the floor and he sank down, barely muttering a goodnight to the two.

 

“I do hope we have made the right decision bringing him here. I should think he would want to be near us at all hours.”

 

Sherlock yawned and nuzzled his face into John’s back. His arms wrapped tighter around his waist. “It is his choice. I believe that this whole ordeal has relieved him of his separation anxiety. Also, we are not far from him, and I think that’s another comfort for him. He will do fine here.”

 

John sighed. He stared at Sebastian and smiled at how the man snored lightly. He tried to impress her at dinner, this much was true. He did his job well.

 

“Do you know that he asked me if she would...harm him...as Moriarty did. He was terrified and I had to calm him.”

 

Sherlock was silent, John knew he was still awake.

 

“He should have never been through that. I am sorry that he was subjected to such torture, and I am glad that the offenders are now rotting in their watery graves.” Sherlock spoke with a venom on his tongue. John gasped, but a question popped into his mind.

 

“Sherlock, what did Thomas say to you? Before he jumped, he turned and spoke with you. What was it about?”

 

Sherlock peppered kisses along John’s back as he thought back to the fall.

 

\--------

 

_“Fall! Do not resist me Holmes!” Moriarty grabbed him and the two began their struggle. The rocks were slippery and Sherlock took extra care to keep his footing. Moriarty had a fire in his eyes and he looked like a wild animal. His hair was out of place and he looked savage. For a moment, Sherlock thought that he would have lost the battle had he not seen sir Thomas lurking behind Moriarty._

 

_He also heard John scream his name. He looked and saw the love of his life standing next to Sebastian. They were scared, and so was he. He had to survive. He had to meet his John, to hold him, to kiss him. He found extra strength and pushed Moriarty right into Thomas’ arms. Thomas swung Moriarty over the edge, ignoring his screams and questioning about what the hell Thomas thought he was doing. Thomas looked over at Sherlock and said, “This will not undo the damage I have done, but it is a start. I beg your forgiveness.”_

 

_Sherlock only stared at him and gave a curt nod. Thomas smiled tiredly and his eyes looked red-rimmed. He was wet and crying, and it reminded Sherlock of the day they met in the church. He wanted to think of him as that man and not the one who worked with Moriarty, or threatened to expose him to the authorities. He could not do it._

 

_“I am sorry.” With that, Thomas flung himself over the edge with Moriarty still in his arms. Sherlock winced when he heard the crunching and cracking of their bodies. It was faint even to his ears, and unheard to John and Sebastian who stood so far away. Sherlock sniffed and made his way down to see his John._

 

_And how grand that reunion was._

 

\---------

 

John gave Sherlock’s hand a squeeze and they lay together in the bed saying nothing. John focused his attention on Sebastian, whereas Sherlock kissed every inch of John’s upper-body as a reminder that they had made it.

 

They had won.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We both want to wish you a happy New Year and see you after Season four premieres!


	29. Yearning No Longer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Readers! This is co-author Chanolay here. I took the reigns on this chapter and I just wanted to apologize to you all for it being so late! Aside from being busy with school and work, I've never really written anything even this short of a length on my own before so I ran into a few bumps along the way. Either way, I hope you all enjoy it! Comments are loved and welcomed.
> 
> Also, this chapter is mostly smut but we've constructed it so that if that's not your thing, you can skip it without really missing much. There will be one more chapter after this. We're almost there!

Returning back to Baker Street brought relief to both men. Although Sebastian was not in tow to fill the flat up with his added presence, both men were relieved to find the sense of gaping loss gone from their spirits. Sebastian was learning to make his way with Mrs. Hudson’s guidance, free to make his own choices now and free to develop his own character. Certainly John found himself feeling nostalgic as he recalled memories of raising Sebastian in their flat but they left him with a little smile instead of regret and guilt. 

 

The few days that passed after their return home were mostly spent sleeping and resting in quiet. What happened in Switzerland, though the outcome had been a miracle, left them tired and utterly thankful that they both were alive and together. Perhaps Moriarty deserved death for all that he had done, but to witness it, to play a role in causing it, inevitably had an effect on one’s person. In comparison then, the valiant death of Sir Banville was even harder to process. 

 

They shared the same bed, as had become normal, letting each other’s presence heal and give a sense of safety and comfort. The fight against the threat to their love, their relationship, was now over - washed away with Moriarty in his grave at the base of the Riechenbach falls. They were free of his looming presence and that freedom was almost difficult to become accustomed to, in a way. John knew that Sherlock looked at him often, but now there was something loving in the man’s eyes that John was not used to receiving so openly. In reciprocation, he also allowed his affections to shine through unadulterated. 

 

John’s confidence grew in bathing Sherlock with his attentions. He would lean in for small kisses during the day, outstretch his foot to press along Sherlock’s as they read in comfortable silence, brush his curls back when an errant one fell across the man’s forehead. Without the worry and the fear, there was nothing holding back John’s arousal, and for the first time it seemed that Sherlock was not working to withhold his any longer either.

 

Of course both men knew that their relationship was wrong in the eyes of society, that they could never reveal their inclinations to the public, but here in their home, nothing could dull the love the two men felt for each other anymore.

 

It was on a rainy night when their feelings finally brimmed over the edge. 

Sherlock had his eyes shut in thought, a pipe in his mouth from which swirls of smoke filled the room with a light and earthy scent; John was writing an entry in his journal and the fire crackled between them as the two men sat without speaking, just basking in one another’s company.

 

As was characteristic of most his journal entries, John’s had become more and more about his feelings for Sherlock. Somehow his descriptions of the day had turned solely to describing the small things about Sherlock that he loved. Naturally, this lead to a fond and thoughtful gaze resting on the detective’s form.

 

“John, we have been in each other’s presence constantly for the past few days. Have you not gotten tired of looking at me?” Sherlock’s deep baritone broke the silence, eyes cracked open to look upon his flatmate. A corner of his lips was pulled up, accompanying the teasing tone of his voice. 

 

John quirked a brow in response, “I do not believe I am capable of stopping. You are a fascinating man, Sherlock. I may not have powers of observation such as you do but that does not mean I do not find wonder in observing you.”

 

Sherlock pulled the pipe from his mouth, straightening slightly in his seat to fix a more alert gaze upon John. “Oh? Do tell what you find so remarkable.” 

 

The smaller man set aside his journal and pen, resting his hands on the arms of his chair, a matching smirk on his lips. “How your lips look around your pipe - so plush and elegant. How they move as you ease the smoke into the air. How the warmth of the flat has pinkened your cheeks and how the firelight accentuates your cheekbones. All of that is remarkable to me, as if I am looking upon art. Shall I continue?”

 

As if surprised, Sherlock could only stare at John as the man spoke so openly of things Sherlock had never heard before said about him. If Sherlock had heard this between any other couple, he would have waved his hand in annoyance and disgust at such sentimental poetry, but now he was frozen in awe. He could feel his cheeks warming further, heart beating faster in his chest. 

 

“Perhaps I shall. How elegant you look reclined in your seat, long legs stretched out. How beautiful your throat looked bared as you tipped your head back. How the light now dances in your eyes. Those are only a few of the observations I have made. You are a smart man, do you not see how they overwhelm me? Why I cannot do anything but continue to look at you, entranced?”

 

The surprise still kept had him frozen but more so, pure emotion was rising to the fore. It tightened his throat, made his chest constrict, and Sherlock felt his eyes sting with tears. John might find it completely pathetic of him to cry over such sweet words but Sherlock was so...So elated, so thankful, so disbelieving that anyone could see him and think those things. His lips moved to speak but no words left them. What could he even say in response to that? 

 

“My love,” John began, his expression shifting into concern as he slid to his knees at the foot of Sherlock’s chair, “have I gone too far? All of those things I said were true but I fear I may have said too much too soon.” His warm, sturdy hands covered Sherlock’s, everything about him exuding a sense of care.

 

For so long Sherlock had tried to keep his desires under lock and key. Even when the perfect opportunity with the perfect man had established itself, Moriarty kept him from realizing his dreams. Now, free to really be with John in every sense without those restraints, Sherlock was hesitant. No part of his life had come without their trials and along the way, many people had come to hate him. Despite John proving himself a steady support as a friend and lover through all these months, that dark part of Sherlock’s mind would not quiet. You will ruin this. Do not be greedy. It’s only a matter of time.

 

“John, you know I am a man who does not deserve such attentions. You may think of me as remarkable now but you have seen little of this world.” 

 

A part of him knew such words were foolish. John had made it clear time and again that he loved him, that he would stay, and Sherlock still could not believe him. Some days it was easier to accept his affection and even reciprocate, but when it came to moments of gravity such as this, self doubt won over rationality. 

 

John’s gentle hand rose to cup Sherlock’s cheek, a steady but soft gaze meeting his own of sadness and insecurity. “Oh, my dear Holmes. You do not see yourself as I see you. It is true I have not experienced much of this world but this feeling I cannot doubt. It is singular and frightening - I would be terrified to think any other could make me feel the same. I love you to a degree that I can barely contain. I cannot even imagine a life without you and that short moment when I thought I might have to live one as such at the falls, was devastating. You created me and your love sustains me. You, Sherlock. Only, and ever, you.”

 

Sherlock’s lips parted to take in a wet and ragged breath. The tears had spilled unbidden, every facet of Sherlock’s great mind focusing on John’s words. He knew they were truthful and even if the same doubts were to plague him again tomorrow, in this moment, Sherlock knew John really loved him. As John brushed the tears away, Sherlock could only think of one thing to do. He leaned in.

 

Kissing John was one of Sherlock’s favourite things to do but this felt different. This was not a quick trade of ‘I love yous’ through a passing press of lips. This was raw emotion, translated through warmth, through touch, through the need for more. Up until this point, Sherlock had been terrified to seek more with John but that trust he had needed, seemed finally fulfilled. John would take care of him, would be aware of him, and would not let him fall. 

 

Both men pressed closer to one another. Sherlock leaned forward, bringing his arms up around John’s neck while the other man’s looped around his middle. 

 

“John, I love you,” Sherlock breathed, forehead resting against John’s as they both managed their breathing.

 

The man responded with a nod, eyes fixed on Sherlock’s before he claimed his lips once more, “You know I love you too.”

 

John’s tongue slid across the seam of Sherlock’s lips, startling him into parting them and allowing John’s to slip inside. It was a strange sensation, their tongues mingling, but heat spiralled through Sherlock’s body to the tip of every extremity. It made him wind his arms tighter around John, his body yearning to be closer so he could feel the man against him. 

 

After so long of daydreaming, of convincing himself such an interaction would never happen, Sherlock’s body was alight with anticipation. John’s hands moving across his back, the scratch of his stubble against Sherlock’s jaw, flooded his senses with arousal. He was already hardening in his trousers and Sherlock just wanted more.

 

“Up. Up, love,” John broke their kiss to breath the words against his lips, rising to his feet although still bent forward so they were not separated. “Up. The bedroom.” He clutched a hand around Sherlock’s elbow, urging him to stand so they could move. 

 

John had been waiting for this moment for so long and finally Sherlock was not objecting. In fact, Sherlock looked eager especially as he shot to his feet and carelessly tossed his pipe onto the side table. Veridian blues slipped down to John’s groin and a little smile of relief passed over those reddened lips before Sherlock grabbed at John’s hand to tug him down the hall. Of course the man went willingly.

 

Their bedroom door slammed into the frame after a hard prod of John’s foot but neither men cared. The moment they were in the room with the bed but a few feet away, the two men came together once more. Sherlock’s arms looped tight around John’s neck while the other man held him close around the waist. 

 

John’s hands roved over Sherlock’s back and down over the curves of his arse, wanting so badly for the barrier of clothing to be gone. He tugged down at Sherlock’s robe, letting the navy silk slide to the floor. The detective was on the same train of thought, slender fingers going to the button of John’s vest and then his shirt after the first piece hit the ground. 

 

“I have wanted you like this for so long now, Sherlock,” John whispered, burying his fingers in the man’s curls to bring him in for another kiss. 

 

Sherlock nodded frantically, fumbling with the buttons at the distraction. “I as well. I know I refused you those months ago but I- I was only afraid.”

 

“You are not anymore?” John asked, helping with his free hand to undo the last few buttons and then promptly getting out of the garment. 

 

“No. I am nervous - because I have never done this with another person, man or woman - but I am no longer scared. I trust you, John.” Sherlock’s eyes met his and John could see nothing but truth. 

 

John nodded, going for Sherlock’s buttons now so he could finally get his hands on that pale skin. “We will learn together. You know I have never done this before either. I only know that I want you in the most intimate way possible.” 

 

Sherlock assisted with the buttons until he could tug the shirttails from his trousers and toss it to the floor. He immediately looked down to John’s bare chest, to the stitches that still marked the connection of limbs. 

 

So long ago, it seemed, Sherlock had put John together in moments of utter loneliness and grief. He was only trying to create company though he had gained much, much, more than that. He brushed his fingers over some of the scars, finding only beauty in the fact that John had been brought to life just for him. Even if he had constructed the body, the life and breath of John was some part God given - Sherlock had to believe that. 

 

“You can have me, John. I have belonged to you since the day you took your first breath and I will belong to you as long as we live. Maybe even longer. If anyone hears of our story in the years after we pass, they too will see how I have always been yours.” He knew his eyes were pools of black with his arousal - just like John’s - but the sincerity was still clear.

 

John’s expression turned soft before he pressed in close again, the kiss one of love and gratitude. 

 

They parted for just a moment to work their bottoms off, Sherlock grabbing a tin of Vaseline from from under his mattress. 

 

John had been admiring Sherlock’s bare form but he raised an eyebrow at the procured item when his lover returned to him.

 

Sherlock’s cheeks grew dark with a blush, holding the tin like a precious item in his large hands. “Y-You see, although I have not been with anyone, I have fantasized and...And, before you, I would...I would pleasure myself. This, well, makes it easier.”

 

John’s cheeks coloured as well at the new knowledge, his mind immediately conjuring images of Sherlock touching himself, filling himself up with his fingers. 

 

The smaller man surged forward, grabbing at Sherlock’s hips and urging him back until the back of the man’s knees hit the edge of the bed. Obligingly, Sherlock sat down and edged backwards, dropping the tin onto the sheets as John climbed over top of him. One of his legs was between Sherlock’s, his knee pushing right up into the man’s groin. 

 

“Oh! Jo-hn,” Sherlock gasped, fingers curling around John’s forearms. His head dropped back against the pillow, back arching so he could push into the contact of John’s firm thigh. Sherlock was certainly hard now. 

 

John raked his eyes down Sherlock’s chest to the darkened jut of his erection between them. Those gorgeous long legs were spreading wider for him and his hunger deepened to touch Sherlock more, to learn his body. He could never know Sherlock’s body like Sherlock knew his own, but he could damn well try. 

 

With Sherlock’s head thrown back, his throat was a perfect stretch of bare skin upon which John pressed his lips. He licked and nibbled, sucked to leave beautiful blooms of red behind. His lips trailed downwards through the soft hairs that dusted across Sherlock’s chest. He rubbed at one nipple between his fingers, watching Sherlock keen into the touch, and decided it would be valuable knowledge to see how the bundle of tissue felt under his tongue. 

 

Sherlock’s breath hitched as he felt John’s tongue lave his nipple, tug at it with his teeth. He was losing control of his body, becoming pliant under John’s ministrations so that all he knew was the need to chase the sensations John was bestowing upon him. His back arched under John’s tongue, testicles still finding friction against John’s thigh. 

 

“J-John. Please. I need- I need more,” Sherlock looked down at his lover through hooded eyes, lips parted, cheeks red, and head of curls in disarray- already looking debauched. 

 

John reached around and found the tin, opening it quickly to drag his fingers through the greasy substance inside. “I will give you more then, my love. Just be patient with me.”

 

He had no experience with this whatsoever but John was a smart man. He shifted to situate himself between Sherlock’s legs to allow the man to spread his legs wide apart. John reached down in between them, fingers brushing past his erection and scrotum, down the line of his perineum, to rest at the pucker of his arse. His heart was racing and his body was tense with anticipation. He was not even sure how such a small space could accommodate John’s fairly large size but Sherlock was making no objections. In fact- 

 

“Oh, yes. Please, please, John. Right there. I need you.” Sherlock reached up, gripping at John’s shoulders while the man smeared the Vaseline across his entrance. 

 

Soon, John was pushing his finger inside, twisting it to coat the inner rim with the substance as well.

 

Sherlock’s breath caught in his chest, body going taut. It was always a strange feeling in the beginning but as John moved his finger in farther, Sherlock could only want more. 

 

John pressed in his digit and pulled out slowly, surprised at how tight and warm the space actually was. He could not imagine such a feeling wrapped around his aching cock but just trying to sent shocks of arousal up his spine. 

 

The longer he worked his finger in and out, the more Sherlock seemed to open up around him. Soon John was collecting more Vaseline to work a second finger in and this time Sherlock accepted the intrusion without objection. 

 

He was completely mesmerized by how Sherlock squirmed and bucked at the movements of his fingers, that expression going slack to show nothing but pleasure. 

 

“You look so beautiful right now,” John whispered, leaning down to kiss the corner of Sherlock’s mouth and along his jaw while he kept working his lover open.

 

Sherlock’s lips twitched into a smile briefly before John’s wrist changed angles and that perfect spot inside of him was brushed over. The rush of sensation made him go tense, mouth dropping open and eyes squeezed shut as he let out a high moan. 

 

“Again. Please, dear God, that same place, again.” He knew he was begging but Sherlock did not care. He was safe with John, safe with the man who loved him. 

 

John obliged, finding that spot unerringly the next few pushes in.

 

Sherlock was dripping onto his stomach and he knew he was getting dangerously close to reaching climax. “Now, please, John! Enter me, make me yours, fill me up.”

 

John nodded frantically, taking his hard cock in hand and passing his slicked hand over it. He had to add a little more but with the addition of his precome, John was ready. He brought the head of his cock to Sherlock’s slick entrance, lining up and beginning to push. It was a wonder to watch it disappear inside his lover but the sensation was unlike anything else. “Oh, bloody hell. Sherlock!” John gasped, unable to process such warmth and constriction around his member.

 

Similarly, Sherlock was speechless from the brand new pleasure. His back was arched, head tossed back. The stretch just touched on the border of discomfort but John had taken his time opening him up so that feeling was quickly replaced by pleasure. 

 

Slowly, John continued to push inside, stopping periodically to let Sherlock adjust. The moment he was seated inside Sherlock, John grabbed at his thighs to pull up those long legs over his hips. He breathed out hard before beginning to work his hips in and out. 

 

Sherlock had found his voice eventually, breathy moans and little high-pitched noises leaving his lips. “John! Ah! F-feels….so good!”

 

John could only make a noise of agreement, leaning forward to rest his forehead over Sherlock’s shoulder as he slid in and out of that luxurious heat. His knees were beginning to slip on the sheets so he pulled up closer, making Sherlock bend inwards more.

 

Shifting must have brought him into contact with that sweet spot inside Sherlock because the man was suddenly moaning louder. His blunt nails dug into the skin of John’s shoulder blades but John did not care. If anything, those sharp points of pain kept him from unravelling faster because there was a tightness in his gut that threatened to spill over. He knew once he gave in to that urge to let go, this would be finished. 

 

The smack of skin, the creak of the bed, and the noises that left their lips filled the room.

 

“Oh, God, John. I ca-cannot hold on much longer,” Sherlock had the mind to warn, breath hot against John’s ear. 

 

John pulled up to rest his forearms on either side of Sherlock’s head so he could watch that ethereal face, take in the look of utter pleasure. He began to move his hips faster, thrusting into the tightness of Sherlock’s arse so that he could push in as deep as possible. 

 

Sherlock knew that John wanted to see and so did he. Through the intense sensations, Sherlock forced himself to open his eyes and meet John’s, bare his emotions in the most intimate connection. 

 

At such an quick pace, they were on the brink of coming within seconds but John did not slow. He kept pushing in deep until they were both flung over the edge, falling into the white hot pleasure of climax. Sherlock’s cum painted stripes on John’s stomach at the same time that ejaculate filled the already tight space of Sherlock’s arse around John. 

 

He might have kept on moving his hips but John was not aware of such actions, lost in the glow with his forehead pressed to Sherlock’s.

 

Neither of them could do more than catch their breaths and wade through the haze of satisfaction. Only a few minutes later could John manage a drunken smile, opening his eyes to see the same elated expression on his beloved’s face. 

 

Sherlock’s hands roamed up and down his back, rubbing over the crescent indentations on his shoulder blades to sooth the sting. “Better than I ever imagined. Even though,” He whispered, twitching experimentally around John which turned out to be a mistake with how over sensitive they were both getting. “Sorry.”

 

John could only chuckle, shaking his head and rubbing circles into Sherlock’s thigh. “Don’t be. That was amazing. You were amazing. I love you, Sherlock.”

 

A true smile spread across Sherlock’s lips, eyes shutting for just a moment at the rush of emotion. Yes, he had imagined doing this for years now with different men and had felt so wrong about it. He had felt isolated and like the freak everyone said he was for his inclinations. Sherlock had never thought he would be able to have this and now, to have it with a man like John who cherished him and cared for him without ulterior motive? Well, he could only see the wait as worth it - all that pain, all that doubt and fear, was worth it. 

 

They both shared a kiss, tired and happy, 

 

“I love you too, John. More than I can ever say.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About the lube situation, Vaseline was created in 1872 in the United States so us authors reasoned that Sherlock is spoilt enough to buy lube from overseas. Probably not the first strange thing he's gotten form there anyways, right?


	30. Baker Street Boys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of our journey!

_The last time I wrote in this was months ago, when life was its bleakest for me. To read it now and relive that awful time, I truly felt that there was nothing left for me here. I thought my project had failed, that I was truly as useless as I felt. I thank God that the universe proved me wrong. I thank God, that John lives._

  _It has been two hours since we have been intimate. He sleeps now, the sheets thrown over his naked form, and my robe gathered from the floor and covering my own nudity. Nothing could have ever prepared me for such a feeling as sexual intercourse with the man of my dreams, the love of my life. He had been so gentle too, something that I had not expected, despite his caring and careful behaviour towards me. All my life, by my brother, and society at large, I was made to believe that should someone ever regard me highly enough to want sexual intimacy with me, they would not treat me with the same tenderness John had shown. I would be nothing more than an outlet. I believe in this more when I think about how different my life could have been had I accepted my role to live long enough to procreate and to find a woman to bear my children. It scares me, quite frankly, that if my life had gone in that direction, I would never have known my John._

  _My heart warms at the thought that what John and I did was more than intercourse, it was something that married couples no longer dream of having. We made love. Even as we were carried off to slumber, still heavy with arousal, the last words I heard from him were words of affection and love, and to even think about this brings tears to my eyes._

  _With him I know in my heart that I can move on from Mycroft’s death. I can remember my brother without that darkness that would incapacitate me should I dwell on him for an extended amount of time. It has also occurred to me that my brother knew about Moriarty, as his apology in his last letter seemed to be written in advance. He tried to stop Moriarty had he not? He knew about Banville’s ties to the madman and perhaps, that was the reason my brother tried to be his closest companion. Maybe I only want to believe that he was still my protector until the end._

  _You are forgiven, Mycroft._

  _John stirs in his sleep, I should take care to prepare a meal for us by the time he wakes. I should also propose a bath to clean ourselves proper from our time together._

  _Hopefully, I will continue this later._

_-SH_

_~~~~~~~~~~~~_

 

_ October 27th _

_Much has happened since I last had the mind to write an entry into this journal. All those months ago I wrote of Sebastian leaving and it amazes me how things have changed for the better in such a short period of time. Sebastian is alive and well, living and learning with Mrs. Hudson and filling the role of an educated gentleman more and more each day, he came over to the flat for tea. He is as perceptive as ever and noticed the shift in our relationship. While he has become more mature, he reverted to the old Sebastian and became ecstatic to learn of this. It took all we had to get him to return to Mrs. Hudson. Our tormentor, Moriarty, has been rid of and it has become easier to breathe for the both of us as we become accustomed to living without the threat of his presence in our lives._

_Since my last entry, where I doubted Sherlock’s love for me, he and I have also become more intimate. There is no feeling even comparable to the act of making love to Sherlock. I am fortunate enough to see the deeper, warmer side of him every day, but in those heated moments where we are joined as one, a more vulnerable side of Sherlock is revealed to me. I look upon him, feel him, and cannot help but be amazed at the wonder I have in my arms. There is no other beauty like seeing him come undone with pleasure, marked, touched until he is loose and sated. I count my blessings each day for the marvel that is Sherlock Holmes._

_It seems our lives are set to move on from this point. Without Moriarty’s threats, we are free to develop as much as we can under the restraints of this society. I am no longer content to stay at home and Sherlock knows this. He has suggested that I become a man of medicine and, after some thought, I feel that that is something I would like to pursue. There is something about helping others, possibly saving lives with my own hands, that draws me towards the profession. Perhaps I am taking after the man who created me and gave me life._

_My pure interest in medicine also bodes well. Sherlock says that so far, I have demonstrated skill in the profession and I trust no one’s judgment as much as I do his. Sherlock would never lie to me or withhold the truth. I like the idea of using my hands to treat ailments, to diagnose, to care for those unable to care for themselves. The responsibilities will be heavy but there is a sort of thrill in that._

_In turn, I asked Sherlock if speaking with Lestrade about helping on difficult cases would be a prudent thing to do. He certainly has the mind of a genius and I know that solving crimes is something he loves to do. Although I know he would do it for the sake of saving lives and keeping these London streets clean, I also know that crimes and murders suit Sherlock’s macabre interests. However, if they go hand in hand, who am I to stop him? Of course, I will be with him as often as I can, while pursuing studies in medicine, so that I might dull the intensity of those interests from coming to light. It will be a bit of a joke for me, being the epitome of Sherlock’s rather dark mind._

_I am excited to continue this journey with my beloved. I think I may take to documenting the adventures that we embark on so that I may look back upon them in the future. Perhaps, if I do him enough justice, release our exploits to the public so that they too can see how wonderful, and smart my love truly is._

_For now, I must return to the bed upon which my dearest awaits me. The madman is demanding to be kissed and who am I to refuse Sherlock Holmes such a reasonable request?_

_\------_

_P.S._

_I shall soon be called “Dr. Watson”. Detective Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson, hah! Names for the history books, I reckon._

 

~~~~~~

_John and I had a talk over tea. We discussed the next step of our lives together, as free as we can make it being a couple. I remarked upon John’s impressive medical skills, the way he treated my face after my attack, and his handiwork of Sebastian’s wound. He sipped his tea in thought as I showered him in praise. I also made sure to remark that his writing is splendid and entertaining, and then apologised immediately after for reading his journal._

_He then told me that my powers of observation are special, and commended me for my handling of the Carlton Powers case all those years ago. He proposed I begin asking Lestrade for cases I can assist with. I posed the suggestion that John would do great as a doctor, to which he smirked and blushed._

  _We left the conversation there but it is exciting to know our options for the future, and that we will face our future together._

  _Keeping John’s words in mind, I took a walk to Scotland Yard today and inquired about any cases that required outside assistance, after intense badgering (and a lengthy deduction about the deplorable state of his personal life), Lestrade relented and gave me a case. A corpse found in a house in Brixton, with naught but the word **RACHE** written in blood on a wall. John and I will be traveling to the crime scene later in the day. _

  _The game is on!_

_-SH_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS WE DID IT! This is the end of Vitruvian and we are so so glad that you all have enjoyed it as much as you did. My co-author and I are very sorry for the extreme delays in updating, life happens you know? 
> 
> We felt that having Sherlock and John write journal entries for this chapter was nice because it gives us their POV on the same situation which is hard to do as a writer most times. We hope you feel the same way we do!
> 
> Thank you for all the kudos, thank you for all the comments, the bookmarks, the subscriptions, and thank you for all the reblogs on tumblr too! I think I speak for the both of us when we say that we did have a lot of fun writing this and we are so happy and thrilled that you all enjoyed our twist on Frankenstein and Sherlock! 
> 
> Please, continue to kudos, comment, subscribe and share and thank you all once again for being such amazing readers! We hope you like the ending! 
> 
> Remember, my new tumblr name is [johnlockerooni ](http://johnlockerooni.tumblr.com/) don't hesitate to check it out! 
> 
> And lastly, thank you to my wonderful co-author Chanolay who is such a busy woman and I'm so glad she thought me and my little AU fic worth her time. She is great at capturing Victorian speech, and she wrote John so beautifully, as well as the smut scene, I just couldn't stop rereading those chapters! Thank you so much and I wish you nothing but happiness in life!

**Author's Note:**

> This was co-written with Olivia! Be sure to check out our tumblrs [Chanolay](http://chanolay.tumblr.com/) and [Johnlockerooni](http://johnlockerooni.tumblr.com)! 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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